That availed him
nothing; except to make Cyril seek him out in whatsoever refuge
the dog had chosen.
Lad, trotting hungrily to his dinner dish, would find his food
thick-strewn with cayenne pepper or else soaked in reeking
gasoline.
Lad, seeking peace and solitude in his piano cave, would discover
his rug, there, cleverly scattered with carpet tacks, points
upward.
Lad, starting up from a snooze at the Mistress's call, would be
deftly tripped as he started to bound down the veranda steps, and
would risk bruises and fractures by an ugly fall to the driveway
below.
Wherever Lad went, whatever Lad did, there was a cruel trick
awaiting him. And, in time, the dog's dark eyes took on an
expression of puzzled unhappiness that went straight to the
hearts of the two humans who loved him.
All his life, Lad had been a privileged character on the Place.
Never had he known nor needed whip or chain. Never had he,--or
any of the Place's other dogs,--been wantonly teased by any
human. He had known, and had given, only love and square
treatment and stanch friendliness.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191