Pam and the Countess

by E. E. Cowper

"Next time I'd put a trail of pebbles if I were you," suggested Hughie.

"You mean like Hop-of-my-thumb did, when he found the birds ate his bread-crumbs?"

"Or," said Hughie, pausing in his work, "you could blaze a trail on the bushes. That's easy enough--tiny little breaks in the twigs--and leaves stuck on the ends of them. I would."

"Yes," agreed Pamela thoughtfully, "if I go again I will. Well, anyway I had to hide, because two women came from the house and went to the end of the garden. One was Mrs. Trewby--looking as yellow as marmalade--and the other was that maid Baker. Lady Shard had her for years, and she married the London butler. Her name is Mrs. Chipman now. Do you remember her, Midget?"

"She came to tea with Mrs. Jeep when she was dressed in black. I hated her," said Hughie, "she says silly things to people about being mischievous. She calls it 'mischeevious'. She doesn't understand anything."

"She'd talk the hind leg off a donkey," said Pamela with contempt. "I should think the butler was very thankful when he died and could get away from her voice--it clacks. I couldn't remember her at first, and I was so busy remembering that I forgot to notice what she said--it was all about people, though--you know how that kind of person talks. They went back past me to the house, and then the Chipman female began shouting for her dog, and I was so fearfully afraid of being caught that I fled along the path over the wall and came home."

"How did you know she was calling the dog?" asked Hughie, opening the paper bag and looking into it with interest. "How do you know she wasn't calling the other girl?"

"Couldn't have been; she called 'Countess, Countess, Countess', just how people call dogs, and that sort of person usually call dogs by that kind of name; and the dogs are usually big, fluffy ones which never do what they're told. Oh, it was a dog right enough, I'm sure. Well, that's all. It isn't a very bright prospect is it, Midget?"

"Not very," allowed Hughie; "what time is it, Pam?"

Pamela, consulting a wristlet watch, said it was about twelve. It must be, she concluded, because her watch was a quarter to one. "I calculate it to be over half an hour fast towards the end of the week," she told him, "then I begin fresh on Sundays. It's a bother, because you forget and are sure to be late for breakfast. However, it can't be helped."