“If he owns that dog,” asserted the still furious owner of Flopit, “I WILL have him arrested. Where is he? Where is that laundryman?”
“Why, he,” Genesis began slowly, “HE ain' no laundrym—” He came to an uncertain pause. If she chose to assume, with quick feminine intuition, that the dog was William's and that William was a laundryman, it was not Genesis's place to enlighten her. “'Tic'larly,” he reflected, “since she talk so free about gittin' people 'rested!” He became aware that William had squirmed through the hedge and now lay prostrate on the other side of it, but this, likewise, was something within neither his duty nor his inclination to reveal.
“Thishere laundryman,” said Genesis, resuming—“thishere laundryman what own the dog, I reckon he mus' hopped on 'at street-car what went by.”
“Well, he OUGHT to be arrested!” she said, and, pressing her cheek to Flopit's, she changed her tone. “Izzum's ickle heart a-beatin' so floppity! Um's own mumsy make ums all right, um's p'eshus Flopit!”
Then with the consoling Miss Parcher's arm about her, and Mr. Watson even more dazzled with love than when he had first met her, some three hours past, she made her way between the tubs, and passed on down the street. Not till the three (and Flopit) were out of sight did William come forth from the hedge.
“Hi yah!” exclaimed Genesis. “'At lady go'n a 'rest ev'y man what own a dog, 'f she had her way!”
But William spoke no word.
In silence, then, they resumed their burdens and their journey. Clematis was waiting for them at the corner ahead.