It called him to himself, it soothed him, it calmed him, and he turned and looked toward the crowd. With the roar of the shotgun the usual order observed in field trials was broken up. All rules seemed to have been suspended. Ordinarily, no one belonging to "the field" is allowed to speak to a dog. Yet the girl had spoken to him. Ordinarily, the spectators must remain in the rear of the judges. Yet one of the judges had himself wheeled his horse about and was galloping off, and Marian Devant had pushed through the crowd and was riding toward the bewildered dog. He stood staunch where he was, though in his ears was still a throbbing pain, and though all about him was this growing confusion he could not understand. The man he feared was running across the field yonder, in the direction taken by the judge. He was blowing his whistle as he ran. Through the crowd, his face terrible to see, his own master was coming. Both the old man and the girl had dismounted now and were running toward him. "I heard," old Swygert was saying to her. "I heard it! I might 'a' known! I might 'a' known!" "He stood," she panted, "like a rock--oh, the brave, beautiful thing!" "Where is that----" Swygert suddenly checked himself and looked around. A man in the crowd (they had all gathered about now) laughed. "He's gone after his dog," he said. "Peerless has run away!" VII THE CRISIS IN 25 He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us He made and loveth all. Something was wrong with little Tommy Earle. Consequently, something was wrong with the whole Earle plantation. Frank, the Earle dog--a stately Irish setter, rich in the wisdom and devotion of the nobly bred bird dog--Frank had sensed it yesterday afternoon. The boy had not come out of the house until long after dinner. Then he had strolled off forlornly and in silence toward the garage. His frowsy head had been bowed as if he were studying his own little shadow at his feet. His wide blue eyes--they were exactly on a level with the dog's anxiously inquiring ones--had had in them a suggestion of pain and helplessness, of dependence on things bigger than himself. He had made no outcry; Tommy was something of a stoic. In fact, he had said nothing at all. But that look had gone straight to the dog's heart. Since hunting season was over he had been self-appointed guardian of this boy. The two had come to understand one another as boys and dogs understand. There was no need of words now. Frank understood; something hurt the boy inside.