Muldoon, disturbed by Wint’s long silence, looked up at his master, and barked, under his breath, uneasily. Wint took the dog’s head in both his hands and shook it gently back and forth. “What’s the matter, pup?” he asked affectionately. “What’s on your mind? What are you fussing about, anyhow? What have you got to fuss about, I’d like to know? Come.” Muldoon twisted himself free, and he snarled. It was a part of the game. Then he flung himself forward and pinned Wint’s right hand and held it, growling. Wint took him by the scruff of the neck and lifted the dog into his lap; and Muldoon’s solid body accommodated itself to Wint’s knees and he lay there, perfectly contented. “You stuck around, didn’t you, boy?” Wint asked, his voice a little wistful. “The rest of them didn’t give a hoot for Wint; but you stuck around. Eh? The rest of them didn’t care. ‘Get out. Good enough for him.’ That’s what they’d say. But not you, eh, Muldoon? You stuck. Even Jack Routt. Even Jack came only to offer me booze. And the rest of them didn’t come at all. Only you, pup. You and I, now. But we’ll show them some things. Eh?” Muldoon rolled his eyes up at Wint and said nothing; and Wint lifted the dog from his knees to the bed. “There, take a nap while I’m dressing,” he said. “Then we’ll be moving on.” The dog stayed obediently on the bed; and Wint dressed, moving quietly to and fro. He did not hurry. He was possessed by an easy indolence. There seemed to be nothing in the world worth hurrying for. He was not unhappy; he whistled a little, as he dressed. But once or twice he remembered that his father had let him go without a word, and he winced at the thought. And once or twice he remembered that he had no friend now, anywhere, save Muldoon; and that was not pleasant remembering. But for the most part, he put a good face on life. “After all, pup,” he told Muldoon, “thing’s can’t be any worse. So they’re bound to get better. And we’ll just play that hunch for all it’s worth. Why not? Eh?” Muldoon had no objections; he wagged the stump of his tail and opened his jaws and laughed, dog-fashion, tongue hanging happily. Wint grinned at him, and sat down to tie his shoes. Save for collar and coat, he was fully dressed when he heard through the open door the voice of some one who had come into the office of the Weaver House, downstairs. The voice was unmistakable. The newcomer was Amos; and when Wint realized this, he stood very still, and his face turned a little white. He waited without moving. There was nothing else to do. He heard Amos and some one else coming up the stairs, guided by Mrs. Moody. “Right along here,” the old dame was saying. “Always the same room. I always give him the best. That’s the kind of a gentleman he is, when he comes to old Mother Moody. Right here, now.”