"Hush," commanded Pauline. "And Bemis, run and tell Martha to cook something for him—a beefsteak and potatoes."
"And oysters on the half shell," suggested Harry.
"Love me," announced Pauline sternly, "love my dog."
The coachman had ripped of the last top bar of the crate and a splendid terrier sprang out with a suddenness that made Pauline retreat a little. But, as if he had been trained to his part, he bent his head, and, with wagging tail, approached her. In an instant she was kneeling beside him rewarding his homage with enthusiastic pats and fantastic encomiums.
"Why, he likes me already—isn't he charming?" she demanded.
Harry threw up his hands— "And this for a dog—a new dog—possibly a mad dog!"
"You are a brute."
The dog was making rapid acquaintance with his new home, investigating the garage and, more profoundly, the kitchen, door.
"Here, Cyrus, come Cyrus," called Pauline, and started towards the house. Owen, in his motorcycle togs, was lighting a cigar on the veranda when they came up the steps. Without even pretending to enter into Pauline's enthusiasm over the terrier, he excused himself and walked off briskly in the direction of the garage. A few minutes later they saw him on the motorcycle speeding down the drive.
"I wonder what the impressive business is today," remarked Harry sarcastically.