Crosby
brought himself up with a jerk.
"Thunder," he ejaculated; "the brute knows a way to get at me, and he
won't be long about it, either. What the dickens shall I--by George,
this looks serious! He'll head me off at the door if I try to get out
and--Ah, the fire-escape! We'll fool you, you brute! What a cursed idiot
I was not to go to the house instead of coming--" He was shinning up a
ladder with little regard for grace as he mumbled this self-condemnatory
remark. There was little dignity in his manner of flight, and there was
certainly no glory in the position in which he found himself a moment
later. But there was a vast amount of satisfaction.
The ladder rested against a beam that crossed the carriage shed near the
middle. The beam was a large one, hewn from a monster tree, and was free
on all sides. The ladder had evidently been left there by men who had
used it recently and had neglected to return it to the hooks on which it
properly hung.
When the dog rushed violently through the door and into the carriage
room, he found a vast and inexplicable solitude.
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