This, from a dog, is the last word, the comble of the immutable.
Penrod commanded, stormed, tried gentleness; persuaded with honeyed words and pictured rewards.

Duke's eyes looked backward; otherwise he moved not.

Time elapsed.

Penrod stooped to flattery, finally to insincere caresses; then, losing patience spouted sudden threats.
Duke remained immovable, frozen fast to his great gesture of implacable despair.
A footstep sounded on the threshold of the store-room.
"Penrod, come down from that box this instant!" "Ma'am ?" "Are you up in that sawdust-box again ?" As Mrs.Schofield had just heard her son's voice issue from the box, and also, as she knew he was there anyhow, her question must have been put for oratorical purposes only.
"Because if you are," she continued promptly, "I'm going to ask your papa not to let you play there any----" Penrod's forehead, his eyes, the tops of his ears, and most of his hair, became visible to her at the top of the box.

"I ain't 'playing!'" he said indignantly.
"Well, what ARE you doing ?" "Just coming down," he replied, in a grieved but patient tone.
"Then why don't you COME ?" "I got Duke here.