And, he realized that snow and
adverse winds can sometimes muffle even the penetrating bark of a
collie. The man grew frightened. Halting, he shouted with all the
power of his lungs. No whimper from Cyril answered the hail. Nor,
at his master's summons, did Lad come bounding back through the
drifts. Again and again, the Master called.
For the first time in his obedient life, Lad did not respond to
the call. And the Master knew his own voice could not carry, for
a single furlong, against wind and snowfall.
"I'll go on for another half-hour," he told himself, as he sought
to discern the dog's all-but obliterated footsteps through the
deepening snow. "And then I'll go back and raise a search party."
He came to a bewildered stop. Fainter and more indistinguishable
had Lad's floundering tracks become. Now,--by dint of distance
and snow,--they ceased to be visible in the welter of drifted
whiteness under the glare of the Master's flashlight.
"This means a search-party," decided the man.
And he turned homeward, to telephone for a posse of neighbors.
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