Under this staircase was
set a stand full of walking-sticks, and a table littered with gloves,
brushes, a hand-bell, a riding-crop, one or two dog-whistles, and a
bed-room candle, with tinder-box beside it. This, with one notable
exception, was all the furniture.
The exception--which turned me cold--was the form of a yellow mastiff
dog, curled on a mat beneath the table. The arch of his back was
towards me, and one forepaw lay over his nose in a natural posture of
sleep. I leant back on the wainscoting, with my eyes tightly fixed
on him, and my thoughts flying back, with something of regret, to the
storm I had come through.
But a man's habits are not easily denied. At the end of three minutes
the dog had not moved, and I was down on the doormat unlacing my
soaked boots. Slipping them off, and taking them in my left hand, I
stood up, and tried a step towards the stairs, with eyes alert for
any movement of the mastiff; but he never stirred. I was glad enough,
however, on reaching the stairs, to find them newly built and the
carpet thick. Up I went with a glance at every step for the table
which now hid the brute's form from me, and never a creak did I wake
out of that staircase till I was almost at the first landing, when my
toe caught a loose stair-rod, and rattled it in a way that stopped my
heart for a moment, and then set it going in double-quick time.
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