Mrs. Schofields voice sounded nearer, indicating a threatened approach.
Penrod bestirred himself: he blew out the lantern, and shouted
plaintively:

"Well, ain't I coming fast's I can?"

"Do hurry," returned the voice, withdrawing; and the kitchen door could
be heard to close.

Languidly, Penrod proceeded to set his house in order.

Replacing his manuscript and pencil in the cigar-box, he carefully
buried the box in the sawdust, put the lantern and oil-can back in the
soap-box, adjusted the elevator for the reception of Duke, and, in no
uncertain tone, invited the devoted animal to enter.

Duke stretched himself amiably, affecting not to hear; and when this
pretence became so obvious that even a dog could keep it up no longer,
sat down in a corner, facing it, his back to his master, and his head
perpendicular, nose upward, supported by the convergence of the two
walls. This, from a dog, is the last word, the comble of the immutable.
Penrod commanded, stormed, tried gentleness; persuaded with honeyed
words and pictured rewards. Duke's eyes looked backward; otherwise
he moved not. Time elapsed. Penrod stooped to flattery, finally to
insincere caresses; then, losing patience spouted sudden threats.

Duke remained immovable, frozen fast to his great gesture of implacable
despair.