THE DOG FROM BOONE 63 



when I pulled up the blind and looked out, the stars 

 were shining, the tree-tops were distinct against the 

 sky, and the gi-ass was pale against the dark barriers 

 of the woods. Streaks and splashes of water lay in 

 the sodden hollows of the lawn, near the house a drift 

 of white mist was clinging to the grass. I informed 

 myself that it must have been a cat in the passage, 

 when the drift of mist began to move. There was 

 no wind, yet it rose till it was like a stack of wool, it 

 sank and spread, and it was like a flock of sheep, 

 moving slowly past the house. The Dog from Doone 

 barked again, a discordant, unhappy bark, ending in 

 a hollow, howling note. When hounds are singing in 

 kennel, one sometimes hears that note, and if we 

 knew what hounds mean when they sing in kennel 

 we should know a great deal. At the same moment 

 there was a clatter in the stable below, as of a horse 

 starting up and struggling to its feet — a peculiar 

 sensation passed down my backbone, coupled with a 

 strong desire to rouse Lally from his slumbers next 

 door. I felt, however, that it might be difficult to 

 explain the situation to Lally, and meanwhile I was 

 plunging into a coat, and cramming on fishing boots, 

 on top of my evening trousers. I slipped the dressing- 

 gown rope again round the neck of the Dog from 

 Doone, and he slid downstairs on top of my heels; 

 his back was still up, and his eyes glowed green in 

 the hght of the bicycle-lamp. It was a highly un- 

 pleasant manifestation. We doubled round the end 

 of the house ; there was a wide space of grass before 

 me, backed by a wood, and crossing the gi-ass slowly 

 in the starlight was the flock of sheep — ^no — not 

 sheep — a pack of white hounds. They went on into 

 the wood, over a wall, and they were blurred and 

 cloudy as they went over the wall. 



I admit that from this point ever5i:hing becomes 



