“The snake,” said Miss Ruth, answering the laugh in Ben’s eyes. “And she held him—the snake, I mean—for ten or fifteen minutes, talking about him until those boys thought she was the nicest teacher they had ever had.”
“Could you have done that, Miss Ruth?” asked Betty.
But just then a large black and white hound bounded from the porch of a house they were passing and ran with great leaps toward them, baying in a deep voice.
“Tinker! Tinker!” called Ben, darting forward. Alice drew around to the other side of Miss Ruth, while Elsa and even Betty stepped a little behind.
“Tinker!” exclaimed Ben again, in a steady tone. “Come here! Don’t you bark at my Black Lace Lady!”
The great hound, on hearing Ben’s voice, had stopped short. Now, with eyes cast down, he walked meekly to Ben, who put out his hand and stroked the long, soft ears, saying: “Bad old Tinker, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
As Alice had said, Ben was friends with all the dogs on the road. The hound, after walking a few steps with Ben’s hand on his head, turned and went toward his home.
“I wasn’t a bit afraid,” said Betty, coming forward again.
Ben gave a low whistle to express his thoughts. The others were politely silent.
“What was it you called Miss Ruth, Ben?” Betty asked quickly.