Then came a guarded tap-rap down the front steps. From under the porch he saw blue overalls and stubby shoes. They hugged the porch, they made their way toward him. Then Tommy squatted down and peered with solemn face into the shadow. "F'ank," he whispered fearfully. The dog went to him and licked the chubby hands and the soft cheek, as he had licked them that first day. With a secret look all about, Tommy began to work with the fastening of the chain, his tongue poking through his lips and wiggling. The spring was strong, the thumb that pressed feeble, numb with cold. Once it clicked, and Tommy bit down on his tongue, and the dog sprang forward. The fastening caught, the boy gasped--then frantically began to press. "What're you doing there?" He dropped the chain; both conspirators looked up with a jerk. Earle's face was poked over the banisters above them. "Nuffin!" The lie was shiveringly spoken. "Come in the house, sir." The mother came out and caught the boy by the hand. Her face was distressed. She cast a pitying look at the dog; then she pulled his would-be rescuer away. "Ain't he our dog?" pleaded Tommy. "No, dearest, he belongs to Mrs. Lancaster." "Well, I can take him a jink of water, can't I?" "He doesn't want any water." The dog heard the little shoes hit each step twice. Of all the depressing signs of that depressing morning, the last protesting wail as the front door smothered it was the most ominous. Defeated, humbled, the dog slunk back underneath the porch. But at sight of the hated buggy, he plunged and charged, frothing like a mad dog, running backward, trying to jerk the collar over his head, rolling over and over in his frantic struggles. Not until people were grouped above him did he grow quiet. Then when his former mistress stooped down and petted him, he begged her with his eyes as he had begged her in that other life, and knew, as he had known then, that she did not understand. "I wonder what's the matter with him?" she said. "It's plain enough what's the matter," replied Lancaster. "Would you sell him?" asked Earle eagerly. She straightened up. "No, indeed; we would not think of that." "Then," said Earle wearily, "suppose we go in to the fire. You have a couple of hours to wait." But he and Lancaster lingered near the porch while the women went into the house. "I've just learned," Lancaster was saying, "that this is the plantation where the field trials are run. Have you thought of entering Dan?" "No," said Earle. "Frank's an old-fashioned shooting dog. The greatest one I ever saw. He doesn't seem to have had field trial training." Lancaster laughed. "Between you and me, until he came out here, most of his training was designed to fit him for a lap dog." They went into the house, still talking.