He took him into the covers that fall once or twice and Job’s nose functioned as marvelously as ever. But Chet could not bear to see the old dog blundering here and there, colliding with every obstacle that offered itself. After the third trial he gave up and hunted no more that fall. He even refused to go out with others when they brought their dogs. “My old Job can’t hunt any more,” he would say. “I don’t seem to enjoy it any more myself. I guess I’ll not go out to-day.” Hayes was one of those who tried to persuade Chet to take the field. An abiding friendship had grown up between these two. And late in October Hayes brought another puppy to the farm. “He’ll never be the dog Job was,” he told Chet. “But he’s a well-blooded dog.” “There won’t ever be another Job,” Chet agreed. “But--I’m obliged for the puppy--and he’ll be company for Job.” He called the new dog Mac and he set about Mac’s training that winter, but his heart was not in it. That Job should grow old made Chet feel his own years heavy upon him. He was still in middle life, as hale as any man of twenty. But--Job was growing old and Chet’s heart was heavy. Mary Thurman in the village--it was she whom Job called his mistress--saw the sorrow in Chet. She was full of sympathetic understanding of the man. They were as truly one as though they had been married these dozen years. Annie Bissell, Will Bissell’s wife, said to her once: “Why don’t you marry him, Mary? Land knows, you’ve loved him long enough.” Mary Thurman told her: “He don’t need me. He’s always lived alone and been comfortable enough and never known the need of a woman. I’ll marry no man that don’t know he needs me and tells me so.” “Land knows, he needs someone to rid up that house of his. It’s a mess,” the other woman said. “Chet don’t need me,” Mary insisted. “When he needs me I reckon I’ll go to him.” She saw now the sorrow in Chet’s eyes and she tried to talk him out of it and to some extent succeeded. Chet laughed a little, rubbed Job’s head, said slowly: “I hate to see the old dog get old, that’s all.” “Sho,” said Mary, “he’s just beginning to enjoy living. Don’t have to work any more.” In the end she did bring some measure of comfort to Chet. And it was she who christened Job anew. He and Chet came down one evening, stopped on their way for the mail, and she greeted Chet and to the dog said, “Hello, Old Tantrybogus.” Chet looked at her, asked what she meant. “Nothing,” Mary told him. “He just looks like an old tantrybogus, that’s all.” “What is a tantrybogus?” Chet asked. “I don’t believe there’s any such thing.” “Well, if there was he’d look like one,” said Mary. The name took hold. Mary always used it; Chet himself took it up. By the time Job was twelve years old he was seldom called anything else.