"That is not the point. It must be only the yard for the rest of the week, Patricia."
Patricia drew a long breath. "Well," she said, slowly, "I am glad it's Thursday night 'stead of Monday morning."
Patricia sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. What had wakened her?
A second series of short, sharp little barks sent her hurrying to the window. On the path below, a bit of frayed rope dangling from his neck, stood Custard.
When the doctor came downstairs, twenty minutes later, he found Patricia on the back steps, with Custard in her lap, busily placing a fresh bandage on the hurt paw. "Daddy," she cried, lifting her face for his morning greeting, "wasn't it too lovely of him to hunt me up. Isn't he the most grateful dog ever was?"
The doctor patted the dog's rough head, then stooped to examine Patricia's work. "Not a bad job for an eleven-year-old, Pat."
"I could do it better, only I had to make a strip from a piece I found in Aunt Julia's scrap-bag," Patricia explained.
"Patricia!" Miss Kirby exclaimed from the doorway, "your dress is only half buttoned, and your hair is—Patricia Kirby, have you gone and hunted up another dog!"
"It's the same one, Aunt Julia. He has improved a lot, hasn't he? If you'd seen how glad he was to see me! I suppose he'll have to be sent back. Cæsar likes him pretty well; he didn't growl at him once when I introduced them to each other."