In a moment, he was once more a puppy.

For he knew what it all meant.

It did not need the advent of the Mistress and the Master from the house, in rough outing clothes, nor the piling of duffle-bags and the like into the car's tonneau, to send Laddie into a transport of trumpeting and gyrations.
The first sight and sniff of the tents, rolled tight in the truck, had done that.

Lad understood.

Lad always understood.
This gear meant the annual fall camping trip in the back reaches of the Ramapo Mountains, some twenty-odd miles north of the Place; the fortnight of tent-life, of shooting, of fishing, of bracingly chill nights and white-misted dawns and of drowsily happy campfire evenings.
It meant all manner of adventure and fun for Lad.
Now, on a fishing jaunt, the presence of any kind of dog is a liability; not an asset.