Then the car was breasting the winding slope of the
drive, in first speed; the faint jar of the engine sending
undulations over the mahogany-and-white coat of the stowaway dog.
And, in a minute more, they were out on the smooth highway,
headed for the distant Catskills.
Now, Lad had not the remotest notion he was a stowaway. On the
few times when it had not been convenient to take him on drives,
the Master had always bidden him stay at home. And when, at such
times, the dog chanced already to be its the car, he had been
ordered back to earth. There, was no way for Lad to know, this
morning, that neither of the car's other occupants had seen him
as he lay curled up on the floor, three-quarters hidden under the
fallen rug. The luggage had been arranged in the tonneau, before
breakfast. And nobody had given a second glance at it since then.
The sun was rising over a new-made world, alive with summer glory
and thrilling with bird-songs. The air, later in the day, would
be warm. But, at sunrise, it was sharp and bracing. The mystic
wonder and the hush of dawn were still brooding over the earth.
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