Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers
were just then filling the garden with horrid clamour. They had
been quarrelling, and one had pushed the other two down the back
steps. Gissing, who had attempted to find a quiet moment to scald
the ants out of the ice-box, had just rushed forth and boxed them
all. As he stood there, angry and waving a steaming dishclout, two
Chows appeared. The puppies at once set upon little Sandy Chow,
and had thoroughly mauled his starched sailor suit in the
driveway before two minutes were past. Gissing could not help
laughing, for he suspected that there had been a touch of malice
in the Chows coming just at that time.
He had given up his flower garden, too. It was all he could do to
shove the lawn-mower around, in the dusk, after the puppies were
in bed. Formerly he had found the purr of the twirling blades a
soothing stimulus to thought; but nowadays he could not even
think consecutively. Perhaps, he thought, the residence of the
mind is in the legs, not in the head; for when your legs are
thoroughly weary you can't seem to think.
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