"What in the world are you laughing at, Rosalind?" asked Mrs. Witherbee.
"Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!"
"To tell you the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure that her husband was not within hearing, "I'm glad the old batteries are gone. They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I don't like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I'd much prefer they'd let me sleep."
Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis; Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension of industry.
"Where'd you get that, dad?" asked Tom.
"Been over to Davidson's in the launch," said Mr. Witherbee. "Here! Buck up—Rover, Prince, Fido—what the deuce did he say your name was, anyhow? Hold your head up; get that tail out. Some dog—eh?"
"What's he for?"
"Burglars."
Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing animal.
"Is he well recommended?" she asked.