The Best of the Bass 127 



his shapely muzzle sought my lowered face. For a 

 moment my hand played with the silky softness of 

 his thin ear, then as he regretfully slid down I asked, 

 " Want to go, old fellow ; want to go ? " 



Did he want to go ! Such caperings, fool pranks, 

 and fancy steps ! Did he actually understand ? Aye, 

 right well. In his strange dog wisdom he knew that 

 within four hours something would be doing, and 

 just so sure as I went up for that much sleep, just 

 so sure would he sleep on the door-mat instead of 

 in his kennel, and be lying there quivering and 

 shuddering, pointer-fashion, in an ecstasy of antici- 

 pation when I stole down 'twixt the dawn and the 

 day. 



How could he know? Don't ask me. I cannot 

 explain, though I have my theories. Good dogs 

 know much more than most people imagine. Edu- 

 cated dogs, that are made close comrades, especially 

 those which have been owned, trained, and handled 

 from puppyhood to their prime by only one man, 

 get to know that man, his moods, and methods as 

 few people know each other. This dog could read 

 my face and interpret every shading of the voice. 

 I could make his ears drop with one glance of 

 mock severity, or set him bounding with a mirthful 

 chuckle. 



As usual, I was sitting up and rubbing my eyes 

 before the clock gave its first warning skir-r ! It's 

 funny about that clock. If I didn't wind and set it, 

 I'd oversleep till any old time ; but after solemnly 

 fixing the infernal machine, the appointed hour will 

 find me staring at it, face to face, with exactly spare 

 seconds enough for me to grab the thing, stuff it 



