When we got to the
station at Pittsburg he was there with Cagey, and it took only one
quick glance to see that he was a heart-broken, spirit-broken dog. Not
one spark was left of the fire that made the old Hal try to pull me
through an immense plate-glass mirror, in a hotel at Jackson,
Mississippi, to fight his own reflection (the time the strange man
offered one hundred and fifty dollars for him), and certainly he was
not the hound that whipped the big bulldog at Monroe, Louisiana, two
years ago. He did not see me as I came up back of him, and as he had
not even heard my voice for over one year, I was almost childishly
afraid to speak to him. But I finally said, "Hal, you have not
forgotten your old friend?" He turned instantly, but as I put my hand
upon his head there was no joyous bound or lifting of the ears and
tail--just a look of recognition, then a raising up full length of the
slender body on his back legs, and putting a forefoot on each of my
shoulders as far over as he could reach, he gripped me tight, fairly
digging his toe nails into me, and with his head pressed close to my
neck he held on and on, giving little low whines that were more like
human sobs than the cry of a dog. Of course I had my arms around him,
and of course I cried, too. It was so pitifully distressing, for it
told how keenly the poor dumb beast had suffered during the year he
had been away from us.
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