Wynyard exhibited his left hand, and a severe bite.
“I suppose he was trying to kill Joss; that’s his profession—a killer of other dogs.”
“You seem to have a good many of them,” as an afterthought, “ma’am.”
“Yes; they are not all my own. I take in boarders—only six at a time, and they must be small, no invalids accepted. I look after them for people who go abroad, or from home for a few weeks. I am fond of dogs, so I combine business and pleasure.”
“Yes, ma’am; but they must be a trouble and a responsibility—other people’s pets.”
“I have to take my chance! Some are so nice, it just breaks my heart to part with them. Indeed, there’s Tippy here, the bulldog, I’m pretending he is sick—isn’t it a shame of me? Some are surly, others so sporting, that half my time is spent in scouring the country, and looking into rabbit holes. Others are quarrelsome, or chase, snap, and kill fowl and get me into great trouble. I never keep them on an hour after their time is up. You are the Miss Parretts’ chauffeur, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is this your first situation?” eyeing him keenly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Why did she ask such a question? Did she, to use the good old expression, “smell a rat”?