“You are an exemplary watchdog, Snuff,” he stated.
A moment later Larry Talbot came in.
“Problems?” he said. “Anything I can help with?”
The blade vanished before Jack turned.
“No, thank you,” he said. “It was less serious than it sounded. Shall we return to our tea?”
They departed.
I followed them down the stairs, Talbot moving as silently as the master. I’d a feeling, somehow, that he was in the Game, and that this incident had persuaded him that we were, too. For as he was leaving he said, “I see some busy days ahead, before this month is out. If you ever need help, of any sort, you can count on me.”
Jack studied him for several long moments, then replied, “Without even knowing my persuasion?”
“I think I know it,” Talbot answered.
“How?”
“Good dog you’ve got there,” Talbot said. “Knows how to close a door.”
Then he was gone. I followed him home, of course, to see whether he really lived where he said he did. When I saw that he did I had even more lines to draw. Interesting ones now, though.
He never turned and looked back, yet I knew that he could tell I was behind him all the way.
Later, I lay in the yard, drawing my lines. It had become a much more complicated enterprise. Footsteps approached along the road, halted.
“Good dog,” croaked an ancient voice. It was the Druid. There followed a _plop_ on the ground nearby, as something he’d tossed over the garden wall landed. “Good dog.”
I rose and inspected it as he passed on along his way. It was a piece of meat. Only the most wretched of alley hounds might not have been wary. The thing reeked of exotic additives.
I picked it up carefully, bore it to a soft spot beneath a tree, dug a hole there, dropped it in, covered it.
“Bravo!” came a sibilant voice from above. “I didn’t think you’d fall for that one.”
I glanced up. Quicklime was coiled about a branch overhead.
“How long have you been there?” I asked.
“Since your first visitor came by, the big one. I’d been watching him. Is he in the Game?”
“I don’t know. I think he may be, but it’s hard to tell. He’s a strange one. Doesn’t seem to have a companion.”
“Maybe he’s his own best friend. Speaking of which…”
“Yes?”
“The crazy witch’s companion may be running out of steam about now.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Ding, dong, dell.'”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Literally. Pussy’s in the well.”
“Who threw her in?”
“MacCab, full of sin.”
“Where is it?”
“By the outhouse, full of shit. Back of Crazy Jill’s place. Keeps it from going dry, I guess.”
“Why tell me? You’re the antisocial one.”
“I’ve played before,” he hissed. “I know it’s too early in the Game to begin eliminating players. One should wait till after the death of the moon. MacCab and Morris are new at it, though.”
I was on my feet and moving.
“Pussyfoot, pussyfoot. Wet, wet, wet,” I heard him chanting as I ran off toward the hill.
I mounted the hill and raced down it toward Crazy Jill’s, the landscape flowing to a blur about me. I pushed my way through a hedge when I reached her place, sought quickly, located the roofed and rock-girt structure, bucket on its rim. I ran to its side, rested my forepaws upon the ledge, and peered down into it. There was a faint splashing sound below.
“Gray!” I called.
A very faint “Here!” came to me.
“Get off to the side! I’m going to drop the bucket!” I called.
The splashing grew louder and faster.
I pushed the bucket off the ledge and listened to it wind down, heard it splash.
“Get in!” I called.
If you’ve ever tried turning a crank with your paws you know that it is rough work. It was a long, long while before I’d raised the bucket high enough for Graymalk to remove herself to the ledge. She stood there drenched and panting.
“How did you know?” she asked me.
“Quicklime saw it happen, felt the timing was bad, told me.”