But always; after the first few stiff bounds, he would come to a panting halt and turn back wearily to his resting place in the veranda's coolest corner; as indignant over his own weakness, as he would have been at fetters which impeded his limbs.
He was more and more sensitive about this awkward feebleness of his.
And he sought to mask it; in ways that seemed infinitely pathetic to the two humans who loved him.

For instance, one of his favorite romps in bygone days had been to throw himself down in front of the Mistress and pretend to bite her little feet; growling terrifically as he did it.

Twice of late, as he had been walking at her side, his footing had slipped or he had lost his balance, and had tumbled headlong Instantly, both times, he had begun to growl and had bitten in mock fury at the Mistress's foot.

By this pitiful ruse he strove to make her believe that his fall had been purposeful and a part of the olden game.
But worst of all he missed the long walks on which, from puppyhood, he had always accompanied the Mistress and the Master.

Unknown to the old dog, these walks had been shortened, mercifully, and slowed down, to accommodate themselves to Lad's waning strength: But the time came when even a half-mile, at snail-pace, over a smooth road, was too much for his wind and endurance.
Nowadays, when they were going for a walk, Lad was first lured into the house and left there.