He began the hunt, next morning. Pacing gravely along the center
of the road, he headed toward the mile-distant village. By sheer
luck, such few automobiles as chanced along, at that hour, were
driven by folk who had heart enough to slow down or to turn aside
for the majestically strolling old dog. To the end of his long
life, Lad could never be made to understand that he was not
entitled to walk at will in the exact middle of the road. Perhaps
his lofty assurance in taking such a course made motorists check
speed to spare him.
This morning, he had fared but a half-mile when he saw a car
drawn up at the edge of the road, beside a shaded bit of turf.
Several people had just descended from it; and were making
preparations for an early picnic lunch. One of them had finished
depositing a basket on the ground, at the side of the car
farthest from the strip of sward where the others were spreading
a sea-rug and setting an impromptu table.
The man put the basket down in the road. Then he dived back into
the nether regions of the machine for more provender.
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