[CHAPTER II.]
DICK RUNS AN ERRAND.
THERE was no small amount of excitement next morning when the three younger children became aware that a dog had gained admittance to the cottage on the previous evening. Cries of delight rang from their lips the instant they set eyes on him, and words of pity followed as they beheld his thin condition, sore neck, and bandaged paw. The twins, Willie and Joe, aged four, were inclined to be afraid of him at first; but after watching Dick and Molly stroke his rough coat, and receive kisses in return from his long pink tongue, they grew braver, and caressed him also.
"I wonder what he's called?" said bright-eyed, seven-year-old Molly.
She had addressed the new-comer by a dozen or more names owned by the various dogs with whom she was acquainted, but not one appeared to be the right one.
"It isn't Rough, or Ranger, or Spring, or anything I can think of. If we can't find out what it is, we shall have to think of something quite new," clapping her hands excitedly.
"But, my dear," broke in the widow at this point, "I really don't think we can keep him. The gentlefolks in the village will be sure to say we ain't justified in doing so; and a big dog is a great expense."
"O mother, we can't turn him to doors!" Dick, on the brink of tears, pleaded. "What would become of him, lame as he is? There are lots and lots of boys in the parish who'd stone him directly they saw he couldn't run away from them. Do let us keep him for a little while—at any rate, until his foot is healed."
Widow Wilkins shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed. At length she consented to keep the dog, assuring herself that before long some one would be sure to take a fancy to him and offer him a home.
"What shall we call our dog then?" asked Molly, with quite an important air of ownership.