dog
this was! Heart pounding, Davy waited beside the road.

Mr. Kirby drew rein opposite them and looked down with eyes that
twinkled under his bushy white brows. He always stopped to ask the boy
how his mother was and how they were getting along. Davy had been to his
house many a time with eggs and chickens to sell, or with a load of
seasoned oak wood. Many a time he had warmed himself before Mr. Kirby's
fire in the big living room and bedroom combined, and eaten Mrs. Kirby's
fine white cake covered with frosting. Never before had he felt ill at
ease in the presence of the kindly old man.

"That's a genuine hound you got there, son, ain't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Davy.

"Good for rabbits an' 'possums an' coons, eh?"

"He shore is!"

"Well, next big fat 'possum you an' him ketch, you bring that 'possum
'round an' me an' you'll talk business. Maybe we'll strike a bargain.
Got any good sweet potatoes? Well, you bring four or five bushels along
to eat that 'possum with. Haulin' any wood these days? Bring me a load
or two of good, dry oak--pick it out, son, hear? How's your ma? All
right? That's good. Here----"

He reached deep down in a pocket of his enormous faded overcoat, brought
out two red apples, and leaned down out of his saddle which creaked
under the strain of his weight.

"Try one of 'em yourself an' take one of 'em home to your ma. Git up,
Mag!"

He jogged on down the road, and the boy, sobered, walked on. One thing
was certain, though, Mr. Kirby hadn't known whose dog this was. What
difference did it make, anyhow? He hadn't stolen anything. He couldn't
let a dog choke to death before his eyes. What did Old Man Thornycroft
care about a dog, anyhow, the hard-hearted old skinflint!

He remembered the trouble his mother had had when his father died and
Old Man Thornycroft pushed her for a note he had given. He had heard
people talk about it at the time, and he remembered how white his
mother's face had been. Old Man Thornycroft had refused to wait, and his
mother had had to sell five acres of the best land on the little farm
to pay the note. It was after the sale that Mr. Kirby, who lived five
miles away, had ridden over.

"Why didn't you let me know, Mrs. Allen?" he had demanded. "Or Steve
Earle? Either one of us would have loaned you the money--gladly,
gladly!" He had risen from the fire and pulled on the same overcoat he
wore now. It was faded then, and that was two years ago.

It was sunset when