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And he came to the faucet where they screw on the hose, and he saw that there was a drop of water hanging on the bottom of the faucet. So he licked that up and waited until another drop came, and he licked that up. Then one of the moving-men saw him. "Poor little Dick!" said the moving-man. And he went to the faucet and the little dog wagged his stump of a tail and backed away a step and waited.
I still have an impression of two or three nightmarish days that began with some attempt at real packing and ended with a desperate dropping of anything into any convenient box or barrel or bureau drawer, and of a final fevered morning when two or more criminals in the guise of moving-men bumped and scraped our choicest pieces down tortuous stairways and slammed them into their cavernous vans, leaving on the pavement certain unsightly, disreputable articles for every passer-by to scorn.
These soft cloths belonged to the moving-men, and they kept them to use in that way, so that the things which they moved shouldn't get scratched or broken. When they took anything out of a van, they took off the cloths and threw them in a pile on the sidewalk, and they put the things in a sort of a clump, along the front walk of the new house.
David had come up close, dragging his cart, but his cat had run off into the field. Then the moving-men noticed David standing there. "Hello," said one of the men. He seemed to be a kind of a foreman. "Do you live around here?" David pointed to his house. "I live in that house. Do you know whether there are any little boys coming to live in this house?"
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