In his thirteenth year age overpowered Tantry. His coat by this time was long; it hung in fringes from his thin flanks, through which the arched ribs showed. His head drooped, his tail dragged; his long hair was clotted into tangles here and there, because he was grown too old to keep himself in order. The joints of his legs were weak and he was splayfooted, his feet spreading out like braces on either side of him. When he walked he weaved like a drunken man; when he ran he collided with anything from a fence post to the barn itself. His eyes were rheumy. And he was pathetically affectionate, pushing his nose along Chet’s knee, smearing Chet’s trousers with his long white hairs. In his prime he had been a proud dog, caring little for caresses. This senile craving for the touch of Chet’s hand made Chet cry--and swear. It was at this time that Mary Thurman told Chet he ought to put Tantrybogus away. “He’s too old for his own good,” she said--“half sick, and sore and uncomfortable. He ain’t happy, Chet.” Chet told her that he would--some day. But the day did not come, and Mary knew it would not come. Nevertheless she urged Chet more than once to do the thing. “You ought to. He’d be happier,” she said--“and so would you. You ain’t happy with him around.” Chet laughed at her. “I guess Old Tantry won’t bother me long as he wants to live,” he said. “He makes you feel like an old man, Chet McAusland, just to look at him,” she protested. But Chet shook his head. “I won’t feel old long as I can see you,” he told her. So Old Tantry lived on and grew more decrepit. One day in the winter of his thirteenth year he followed Chet down into the wood lot and hunted him out there--and was so weary from his own exertions that Chet had to carry the dog up the hill and home and put him to bed in the barn. “I ought to put you away, Tantry,” he said to himself as he gave the weary old creature a plate of supper. “It’s time you were going, old dog. But I can’t--I can’t.” His fourteenth year saw Tantrybogus dragging out a weary life. Till then there had been nothing the matter with him save old age, but in his fourteenth summer a lump appeared on his right side against the ribs, and it was as large as a nut before Chet one day discovered it. Thereafter it grew. And at times when the old dog lay down on that side he would yelp with pain and get up hurriedly and lie down on the other side. By September the lump was half as large as an apple. And when Chet touched it Tantry whined and licked Chet’s hand in a pitiful appeal. Even then Chet would not do that which Mary wished him to do. “He’ll go away some day and I’ll never see him again,” he told her. “But as long as he wants to stay--he’ll stay.” “It’s cruel to the dog,” Mary told him. “You keep him, but you won’t let him do what he wants to do. I’m ashamed of you, Chet McAusland.” Chet laughed uncomfortably. “I can’t help it, Mary,” he said. VI