Teddy woke up very early in the morning. The sun had come up and had lost its colour: it hung above the flat line of earth like a colourless lantern, a lamp made of gold but with no light in it. He did not know what had waked him, but there was a chattering birdlike noise from a hummock nearby. Prairie dogs, and they had been making a terrific row, probably. One of them put his nose out of the hole as Teddy lay on his side with wide-open eyes, watching. He crept out slowly, his plump little body elongated with caution. He drew up his back legs one after the other very gently, and sat down on the top with his paws dangling before him. His head turned slowly and he looked at the world with squirrel-like eyes that saw no importance in anything, even in the three prone giants around the smoking pile of ashes. Then he suddenly started to run close to the ground, looking for something to eat. Teddy sat up, and he squeaked and rushed down his hole again; his tail gave a last little twitch as it disappeared. Gin’s head was covered with her blanket against mosquitos and dew; there was nothing visible of Gin but a wisp of hair. Blake’s face was turned to the sun, and his mouth was open. They both slept deeply. It must be very early indeed. Teddy yawned, rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He propped his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his fists, waiting for something to happen. The day was gathering colour again, as if light from the sun were slowly filling the air, mixing imperceptibly, sinking down from the layer of sunshine above the clouds in little driblets, like a mixture of drinks. The ground had dropped away from under the sun. Beyond the long shallow swell of ground in front of him there came a ghost of a yell. Teddy leaned back among the folds of the blanket, and watched until he saw far off the silhouette of a man on horseback driving before him a flock of sheep, almost invisible in the irregular ground.