“Ducky’s right,” added Dog, picking up the big grips, which he carried to the foot of the ladder. Leaving them on the floor, he climbed halfway, and at a signal Ducky handed them up one at a time, and he boosted them through the ceiling hole onto the floor above. Percival watched this performance, but made no move to help.
Out of deference to company, Spud Dugan lighted a lantern and carried it up into the loft, and still Percival sat. Finally, Dog took him by the arm, led him to the ladder, and pushed him up. Just before his head disappeared through the hole, he turned and spoke:
“I’ll bet I’ll make you give me three hundred dollars.”
“You lose your bet,” said Dog sullenly. “Good night.”
Percival was not up when Dog and Ducky left next morning on a long trip to the North Cañon country. Returning, dog-tired, at dark, they found him on the bench in the kitchen, sitting perfectly still, eyes straight ahead, looking at nothing.
Spud Dugan whispered to Dog:
“Just like that all day. Wont do nothing.”
“Let him alone,” answered Dog.
The next day, as reported by Spud, was just about the same, and the next no better. The third day was, in fact, slightly worse, because Percival had brought to his bench a book bound in limp leather. Books always irritated Spud.
“He’ll die on you, sure. Remember that dog the nester’s squaw brought with her from over by Parma. Just sat around and died. Same with him.”