On the way back, stop at the lean-to and catch me that bag of cookin' things I left there.

The's just room for 'em, under the seat.

Chase!" Woefully, the boy limped off; his hand clinched in the fur of Lad's ruff.

The dog, ordinarily, would have resented such familiarity.

But, still seeking to comfort the victim's manifest unhappiness, he suffered himself to be led along.