Suddenly, over the sound of scouring, Constance heard a dog’s low growl and then the hoarse voice of a man:
“Mester in, wench?”
“Happen he is, happen he isn’t,” came Maggie’s answer. She had no fancy for being called wench.
Constance went to the door, not merely from curiosity, but from a feeling that her authority and her responsibilities as house-mistress extended to the pavement surrounding the house.
The famous James Boon, of Buck Row, the greatest dog-fancier in the Five Towns, stood at the bottom of the steps: a tall, fat man, clad in stiff, stained brown and smoking a black clay pipe less than three inches long. Behind him attended two bull-dogs.
“Morning, missis!” cried Boon, cheerfully. “I’ve heerd tell as th’ mister is looking out for a dog, as you might say.”
“I don’t stay here with them animals a-sniffing at me—no, that I don’t!” observed Maggie, picking herself up.
“Is he?” Constance hesitated. She knew that Samuel had vaguely referred to dogs; she had not, however, imagined that he regarded a dog as aught but a beautiful dream. No dog had ever put paw into that house, and it seemed impossible that one should ever do so. As for those beasts of prey on the pavement...!
“Ay!” said James Boon, calmly.
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” said Constance. “But I don’t know if he’s at liberty. He seldom is at this time of day. Maggie, you’d better come in.”