“Here, Pep, old comrade. Come up close and listen.” Pep crowded a little closer and cocked his ears, alert and eager to do his master’s bidding.
“You must go for help. I can’t tell you so you will understand, but go home. Go home.” He struck the dog feebly on the shoulder and repeated the words, “Go home.”
The blow, slight as it was, hurt Pep keenly, but he listened. The doctor repeated the blow and the admonition.
The dog knew well what those words meant. They were the most hateful words in his dog vocabulary, which was not large. How many times his master had turned, when Pep wanted so much to follow, and said sternly, “Go home.”
He waited. Surely his master could not mean it this time. Here he was alone and sick away in the dark woods. Surely he wanted his dog to stay with him. But again the master struck him, and said, sternly, “Go home.”
Sadly, reluctantly, he turned, whimpering as he went and trotted off into the darkness occasionally looking back over his shoulder to see if his master had not repented.
The doctor heard him splash into the brook to cross it, then he sank down wearily, a great drowsiness creeping over him. For awhile he fought it, but finally yielded and sank into deep oblivion.
As Pep trotted away into the shell-raked woods he was probably the most heartbroken dog that ever slunk away to do his master’s bidding. He had traveled so far to find his beloved master, his feet had been sore and his tongue parched with the long journey and he had watched so faithfully by the doctor’s side all through the long night. And now his master had sent him away. He knew that his master needed him also, for he was so weak he could not even bring his canteen with water, or hold up his head to drink.
The blow on his shoulder had been a very light one, but it had wounded Pep more than any blow he had ever received before.
Why did his master send him away? He had been a faithful dog. What should he do? Where should he go? He was not quite sure of the way back to the hospital. The woods were full of frightful sounds, full of lightning and thunder, the kind that tore the limbs from great trees, stripped the leaves from their branches and plowed holes in the ground, holes so deep that if he ever fell into one of them he might not be able to get out again.