Joe came away with a choking lump in his throat. The blind man, holding the harness and walking close to the dog, whistled an almost soundless whistle. The boy knew, by this sign, that the brain behind the sightless eyes had caught a glimmer of light.
Suddenly, without warning, the apple-scented peace of the night was broken by a flash and a roar. A whistling whine filled the air.
“Drop!” Dr. Stone cried.
Not until he lay prone in the road did the boy grasp the significance of flash and roar. Somebody had fired on them from ambush. A shuddering chill ran up his spine, and sweat stood out upon his forehead. The moon-splashed world was silent again, and faintly to his nostrils came the drift of burnt powder.
Dr. Stone stood up. “Another shot,” he called clearly, “and I’ll send the dog to tear you down. Come, Joe.”
Quaking, Joe stood up. They moved ahead again, and the boy’s nerves were torture-tight as he waited for another flash and roar. But the silence remained unbroken and they came at last to the welcome protection of home.
The boy’s voice trembled. “Why did the organ-grinder come back and shoot at us?”
“That bullet,” Dr. Stone said grimly, “was intended for Lady, not for us.” His hand fell upon the dog’s head. “Old girl, somebody’s afraid you know too much.”
In the chill dark of the following morning the boy and the man gulped hot coffee in the kitchen. Arising from the table Dr. Stone walked to a desk in the hall, took out a small first-aid kit, and slipped it into a pocket. Then man, boy and dog were out in the road, when the first golden streak was faint in the eastern sky.
Captain Tucker’s car stood in the driveway. Mr. Foster looked as though he had not slept. Ira Close, his right hand wrapped in a handkerchief, went about small chores.