"How do you do?" she inquired politely.
"I'm pretty shabby, thank you."
"Oh, it's so good to hear your voice again!" she exclaimed. "When you left, I didn't have a chance to tell you good-by."
It was then that she noticed a white something fluttering at his breast, just under his left fore-leg. "Excuse me," she said apologetically, "but aren't you losing your pocket handkerchief?"
Sadly he shook his head. "It's my stuffing," he explained. And gently withdrawing his paw from her eager grasp, laid it upon his breast. "You see, the Big Rock—"
The little old gentleman was beside him, examining the wound; muttering to himself.
"Can you mend him?" asked Gwendolyn. "Oh, Puffy!"
The little old gentleman began to empty his pockets of the articles with which he had provided himself—the ear, the handful of hair, the plump cheek. "Ah! Ah!" he breathed as he examined each one; and to and fro wagged the grizzled beard. "I'm afraid—! I must have help. This is a case that will require a specialist."
The tone was so solemn that it frightened her. "Oh, do you mean we need a Doctor?"
Puffy was trembling weakly. "I lost some cotton-batting once before," he half-whispered to Gwendolyn. "It was when you were teething. Oh, I know it was unintentional! You were so little. But—I can't spare any more."