As the car sent the miles slipping behind and as the Mistress and
the Master glanced back less and less often for a pat or a cheery
word to their sulking chum, Lad's dislike for that pestilential
bag grew sharper. True, it held squares of fried liver;--liver
whose heavenly odor penetrated through the musty leather smell of
the suitcase and to the dog's acute senses. Also, it held a doll
which exuded thrilling squeaks when gently bitten. But these
things, he knew full well, were designed as show-ring baits; not
as free gifts.

No, the bag was his enemy. And, unlike his few other natural
foes, Lad had never been bidden to leave it unmolested. This
memory came to him, in the midst of his blues. He eyed the
loathsome suitcase through quizzical half-shut eyes, as it rocked
and careened at his feet with every jounce of the car. And into
his brain shot the devil of mischief.

Bending down his shapely head, he took the handle of the case
between his teeth. Then, bracing his little white forepaws on the
slippery leather seat, he heaved with all the mighty strength of
his back and shoulders. Under such urgence, the light suitcase
swung high in air. A sideways toss of the muscular throat, and
the suitcase whirled clear of the car door and of the
running-board beneath. Then Lad let go; and settled himself back
smugly in the seat. The luckless suitcase smote the road dust and
rolled into a grassy ditch. The car sped on. Lad, for the moment,
was nearly happy. If he were not able to dodge the show itself,
at least he had gotten rid of the odious thing which held so much
he detested and which was always an inseparable part of the
ordeals he was taken to.