“Oh,” whispered Mother Wye, “you've no idea, Ned! There's a boy and a dog, a very large dog, my dear, on the back steps.”
“Well,” said the doctor, gallantly, “they've no business to be anywhere frightening my little mother. We'll tell them to do something else.” The doctor tramped sturdily around to the back steps, Mother Wye following much comforted.
The dog was actually a yellow dog without any tail to speak of—a large, genial-looking dog, nevertheless; the boy, a black-eyed boy, very grave and indifferent, with a face somewhat thin and long. “Without doubt,” thought the doctor, “a little cuss. Hullo,” he said aloud, “I met a man looking for you.”
The boy scrutinized him with settled gravity. “He's not much account,” he said calmly. “I'd rather stay here.”
“Oh, you would!” grumbled the doctor. “Must think I want somebody around all the time to frighten this lady. Nice folks you are, you and your dog.”
The boy turned quickly and took off his cap. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said with a smile that was singularly sudden and winning. The action was so elderly and sedate, so very courtly, surprising, and incongruous, that the doctor slapped his knee and laughed uproariously; and Mother Wye went through an immediate revulsion, to feel herself permeated with motherly desires. The boy went on unmoved.
“He's an easy dog, ma'am. His name's Poison, but he never does anything;”—which started the doctor off again.
“They said you wanted a boy.”
“Ah,” said the doctor, growing grave, “that's true; but you're not the boy.”
The boy seemed to think him plainly mistaken. “Stuff!” growled the doctor, “I want a boy I can send all around the country. I know a dozen boys that know the country, and that I know all about. I don't want you. Besides,” he added, “he said you were a little cuss.”