Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coat sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man.

Wolf’s perturbation began to wax.  He desired ubiquity.  He wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance between them was increasing.  He sprang about excitedly, making short nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick sharp whines and beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, the mouth opening and closing with jerking movements, each time opening wider.  These jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one.  And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear.  All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide-opened mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man.  Suddenly Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt.  The appeal was unanswered.  Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again.  He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge.  Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left.  He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose—­an old trick of his when begging for favors.  He backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curvetting and prancing, half rearing and striking his forepaws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.

This, too, he soon abandoned.  He was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before.  No response could he draw from them, no help could he get.  They did not consider him.  They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master.  Skiff Miller was rounding the curve.  In a moment he would be gone from view.  Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view.  Wolf waited for him to reappear.  He waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without movement, as though turned to stone—­withal stone quick with eagerness and desire.  He barked once, and waited.  Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine.  He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.