He was developing swiftly, in flesh
and bone and instinct, and there began to possess him now the
beginning of that subtle caution and shrewdness which were to mean
so much to him later on. An instinct greater than reason, if it
was not reason itself, told him that his master was constantly
watching for something which did not come. And that same instinct,
or reason, impinged upon him the fact that it was a thing to be
guarded against. He did not go blindly into the mystery of things
now. He circumvented them, and came up from behind. Craft and
cunning replaced mere curiosity and puppyish egoism. He was quick
to learn, and Jolly Roger's word became his law, so that only once
or twice was he told a thing, and it became a part of his
understanding. While the keen, shrewd brain of his Airedale father
developed inside Peter's head, the flesh and blood development of
his big, gentle, soft-footed Mackenzie hound mother kept pace in
his body. His legs and feet began to lose their grotesqueness.
Flesh began to cover the knots in his tail. His head, bristling
fiercely with wiry whiskers, seemed to pause for a space to give
his lanky body a chance to catch up with it. And in spite of his
big feet, so clumsy that a few weeks ago they had stumbled over
everything in his way, he could now travel without making a sound.
So it came to pass, after a time, that when Peter heard footsteps
approaching the cabin he made no effort to reveal himself until he
knew it was Jolly Roger who was coming.
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