"Alexander, can you tell me whose house this is?" George asked.
"Whose house?" said Alexander. "Why, you know. It's written on the door."
"Yes, I know that; but who is this Mr George?"
"You are, of course," laughed Alexander, and gave a jump of delight. "You are! Fancy not knowing that it was your own house! Ha, ha! What fun!" and he began running after his own tail, faster and faster, until he looked like a black Catherine wheel.
"Oh, I say!" cried George. "My house! Oh, I wish I could bring Father and Mother to see it. Can't I send them an invitation to tea? But I don't see a letter-box anywhere, and I can't write a proper letter. Can you?"
"No!" replied Alexander. "I don't want to. I don't know why people want to write letters at all when they can go for walks and talk to one another—and have games and meals," he added.
"Oh, well, I must just tell them all about it when we get back again. Now we had better start for—you know, wherever my fortune is."
Alexander looked round him for a moment. "I think I know the way, but we may as well ask the weathercock, so as to be quite sure."
"Ask the weathercock? How can that help us?" George was becoming quite puzzled.
Alexander said nothing, but gave a short, sharp bark. There was a faint "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" from the roof in reply; then—could George believe his eyes?—the golden cock stepped off his little perch and fluttered down to their feet.