The Aunt drew a long breath and turned to minister to Mrs Biddle’s deep need of d’oyleys.
“Come and have tea,” said the stranger; “you’re tired out.”
“No—I can’t. Of course I can’t—but I’ll take you over to Mrs Piddock’s stall and——” She led him away. “Look here,” she said, “I’m sure you’re a decent sort. Here’s the money to pay for him. My aunt says if I don’t sell him she’ll have him killed. Will you keep him for me till my people come home? Oh, do—he really is an angel. And give me your name and address. You must think me a maniac, but I am so horribly fond of him. Will you?”
“Of course I will,” he said heartily, “but I shall pay for him. I’ll write a cheque: you can pay me when you get him back. Thank you—yes, I am sure that pin-cushion would delight my aunt.”
Judy, with burning cheeks, found her way back to her stall.
“Oh, Alcibiades,” she said, unfastening the blue ribbon, “I’m sure he’s nice. Don’t bite him, there’s a dear!”
A cheque signed “Richard Graeme” and a card with an address came into Judy’s hands, and the chain of Alcibiades left them.
“I know you’ll be good to him,” she said; “don’t give him meat, only biscuit, and sulphur in his drinking water. But you know all that. You’ve got me out of a frightful hole, and I’ll bless you as long as I live. Good-bye.” She stooped to the Aberdeen, now surprised and pained. “Good-bye, my dear old boy!”
And Alcibiades, stubborn resistance in every line of his figure, in every hair of his coat, was dragged away through the crowded bazaar.
Judy went to bed very tired. The bazaar had been a success, and the success had been talked over and the money counted till late in the evening—nearly eleven, that is, which is late for Tabbies—yet she woke at four. Some one was calling her. It was—no, he was gone—her eyes pricked at the thought—yet—surely that could be the voice of no other than Alcibiades? She sat up in bed and listened. It was he! That was his dear voice whining at the side gate. Those were his darling paws scratching the sacred paint off it.