owever, of having seen a dog. I
feared an accident now, for I knew no thief could steal him, yet even an
accident seemed incredible, he was always so cautious at crossings; also
there could not possibly have been an accident to Porthos without there
being an accident to something else.

David in the middle of his games would suddenly remember the great blank
and step aside to cry. It was one of his qualities that when he knew
he was about to cry he turned aside to do it and I always respected his
privacy and waited for him. Of course being but a little boy he was
soon playing again, but his sudden floods of feeling, of which we never
spoke, were dear to me in those desolate days.

We had a favourite haunt, called the Story-seat, and we went back to
that, meaning not to look at the grass near it where Porthos used to
squat, but we could not help looking at it sideways, and to our distress
a man was sitting on the acquainted spot. He rose at our approach and
took two steps toward us, so quick that they were almost jumps, then
as he saw that we were passing indignantly I thought I heard him give a
little cry.

I put him down for one of your garrulous fellows who try to lure
strangers into talk, but next day, when we found him sitting on the
Story-seat itself, I had a longer scrutiny of him. He was dandiacally
dressed, seemed to tell something under twenty years and had a handsome
wistful face atop of a heavy, lumbering, almost corpulent figure, which
however did not betoken inactivity; for David's purple hat (a conceit of
his mother's of which we were both heartily ashamed) blowing off as we
neared him he leapt the railings without touching them and was back with
it in three seconds; only instead of delivering it straightway he seemed
to expect David to chase him for it.

You have introduced yourself to David when you jump the railings without
touching them, and William Paterson (as proved to be his name) was at
once our friend. We often found him waiting for us at the Story-seat,
and the great stout fellow laughed and wept over our tales like a
three-year-old. Often he said with extraordinary pride, "You are telling
the story to me quite as much as to David, ar'n't you?" He was of an
innocence such as you shall seldom encounter, and believed stories at
which even David blinked. Often he looked at me in quick alarm if David
said that of course these things did not really happen, and unable to
resist that appeal I would