She must hurry and be over! * * * * * Wilbur, with his wicker suitcase, paused last to say goodbye to Frank, the dog.

Frank was now a very old dog, having reached a stage of yapping senility, where he found his sole comfort in following the sun about the house and dozing in it, sometimes noisily dreaming of past adventures.
These had been exclusively of a sentimental character, for Frank had never been the fighting dog his first owner had promised he would be.

He was an arch sentimentalist and had followed a career of determined motherhood, bringing into the world litter after litter of puppies, exhibiting all the strains then current in Newbern.

He had surveyed each new family with pride--families revealing tinges of setter, Airedale, Newfoundland, pointer, collie--with the hopeful air of saying that a dog never knew what he could do until he tried.

Now he could only dream of past conquests, and merely complained when his master roused him.
"I hope you'll be here when I get back--and I hope I'll be here, too," said his master, and went on, sauntering up to the station a bit later as nonchalantly as ever Dave Cowan himself had gone there to begin a long journey on the six-fifty-eight.