But all this machinery made his head tired. So did the smoke and the smells and the confusion of streets. Some rural path--preferably in Kentucky--was the only thing he could think of that would rest him and entertain him when he had no person to talk to and no pet to play with. So he sat upon the knob and kicked his heels to cool his restless feet. His eyes turned from the city's buildings to its fringe of green. They wandered again to the spot where he had seen the most satisfactory thing of the whole day--those passing dogs. There was a bunch of tawny leaves blowing along the hillside. He stared at it idly. No, it was not leaves, that patch of uncertain color. It was something living, something leaping. How uncertainly it moved! How wabbly it was! Doby sat up sharply and peered. He stood up and leaned forward. He shut his eyes for a better long-distance focus and squinted. "It is the yellow dog again. Dog? No! Fox? It can't be a fox! It surely is a fox." Behind the fox a dog was running. A long chase had tired them both. Their pace was dragging. "It is the same dog, I do believe, and the same fox that I saw before. What a big circle they must be running!" All alert now, Doby measured their speed. If he ran forward in quick time at right angles to it, their course would pass quite close to him. Away he flew. He was thinking, "That fox is exhausted. It can hardly get along. The hunt has been an all-day one. The dog--ah, the poor brave doggie!--is worse off than the fox. He will never catch it. What a fine dog! What a game dog, not to give up when he is outrun! He is my kind of a dog. I'll help him." Doby rushed down the hill to head off the fox. At most times it would have been a silly and a useless thing to do. But now the spent fox was not equal to any of its sly dodges. It saw the man creature--that cruel enemy of all wild life--and for one second it paused. On the instant the persistent dog also saw the man creature--that kind friend of all tame brutes--and, reinforced by his presence, leaped with a last bit of strength for the quarry. Doby was in at the death. He cut the brush. It was a splendid trophy. Then he gave his whole attention to the dog, who had fallen over on one side and lay prone. "Poor doggie, he looks as though he were going to die!" quavered Doby. "Poor doggie! Come, doggie! I'll carry you to our flatboat and tend you." So over the hillside and down the terraces and through the unheeding city streets he lugged the limp dog to the landing at the water's edge and into the flatboat and on to a cushion.