He was roused at length by a sudden movement on the part of the dog.  Kamiska had risen to her feet with a low growl, then, as the gate-latch clinked, she threw up her head and gave tongue to the night with all the force of her lungs.  Bennett straightened up, thanking fortune that the night was dark, and looked about him.  A figure was coming up the front walk, the gravel crunching under foot.  It was the figure of a man.  At the foot of the steps of the veranda he paused, and as Bennett made a movement turned in his direction and said: 

“Is this Dr. Pitts’s house?”

Bennett’s reply was drowned in the clamour of the dog, but the other seemed to understand, for he answered: 

“I’m looking for Mr. Ferriss—­Richard Ferriss, of the Freja; they told me he was brought here.”

Kamiska stopped her barking, sniffed once or twice at the man’s trouser legs; then, in brusque frenzy of delight, leaped against him, licking his hands, dancing about him on two legs, whining and yelping.

Bennett came forward, and the man changed his position so that the light from the half-open front door shone upon his face.

“Why, Adler!” exclaimed Bennett; “well, where did you come from?”

“Mr. Bennett!” almost shouted the other, snatching off his cap.  “It ain’t really you, sir!” His face beamed and radiated a joy little short of beatitude.  The man was actually trembling with happiness.  Words failed him, and as with a certain clumsy tenderness he clasped Bennett’s hand in both his own his old-time chief saw the tears in his eyes.

“Oh!  Maybe I ain’t glad to see you, sir—­I thought you had gone away—­I didn’t know where—­I—­I didn’t know as I was ever going to see you again.”

Kamiska herself had been no less tremulously glad to see Adler than was Adler to see Bennett.  He stammered, he confused himself, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes danced, he laughed and choked, he dropped his cap.  His joy was that of a child, unrestrained, unaffected, as genuine as gold.  When they turned back to the veranda he eagerly drew up Bennett’s chair for him, his eyes never leaving his face.  It was the quivering, inarticulate affection of a dog for its master, faithful, submissive, unquestioning, happy for hours over a chance look, a kind word, a touch of the hand.  To Adler’s mind it would have been a privilege and an honour to have died for Bennett.  Why, he was his chief, his king, his god, his master, who could do no wrong.  Bennett could have slain him where he stood and Adler would still have trusted him.

Adler would not sit down until Bennett had twice ordered him to do so, and then he deposited himself in a nearby chair, in as uncomfortable a position as he could devise, allowing only the smallest fraction of his body to be supported as a mark of deference.  He remained uncovered, and from time to time nervously saluted.  But suddenly he remembered the object of his visit.