That night, when the house was shut, Lad crept as usual into his
cave under the piano. And he lay down with a sigh, his great head
between his two absurdly small white forepaws. As a rule, before
going to sleep for the night, Lad used to spend much time in
licking those same snowy forepaws into shining cleanliness. The
paws were his one gross vanity; and he wasted more than an hour a
day in keeping them spotlessly white. But tonight he was too
depressed to think of anything but the whimpering little dog
imprisoned down in the tool-house.
After a while, he fell asleep.
A true watchdog sleeps with all his senses or the very edge of
wakefulness. And when he wakens, he does not waken as do we
humans;--yawningly, dazedly, drunk with slumber. At one moment he
is sound asleep. At the next he is broad awake; with every
faculty alert.
So ever it was, with Lad. So it was with him, this night. An hour
before dawn, he woke with sharp suddenness; and at once he was on
his feet; tense, on guard. He did not know what had roused him.
Yet, now that he was awake, two of his senses recorded something
which banished from him all thought of further sleep.
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