turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded
Walt. The appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the
dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct
should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the
trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and
then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge.
Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she
alone was left. He went over to her and snuggled his head in her
lap, nudging her arm with his nose - an old trick of his when
begging for favors. He backed away from her and began writhing and
twisting playfully, curvetting and prancing, half rearing and
striking his fore paws to the earth, struggling with all his body,
from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to
express the thought that was in him and that was denied him
utterance.

This, too, he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of
these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he
draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him.
They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller
was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view.
Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and
methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was
occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to