“But why doesn’t the poor little doggie like Mr. Anderson?” pursued Mrs. Granger, and there was something in her voice that dismayed the young man.
“I don’t know,” he replied, briefly.
“It’s very strange,” she remarked. “Very! But sit down, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps you were just a little bit rough in handling him—without meaning to be.”
“No, he wasn’t!” Leroy asserted, indignantly. “He—”
At this point the dog broke loose, flew at Anderson, and would have bitten him if Anderson had not prevented him—with his foot.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Granger. “Oh, Mr. Anderson, how could you! You kicked the poor little doggie!”
“I—I simply pushed him—with my foot,” said Anderson. “He’s a bad-tempered little brute.”
“Dogs are never bad-tempered unless they’re badly treated,” Mrs. Granger declared, with severity. “They always know a friend from a foe.”
“All right!” the young man agreed. “Then I’m afraid I’m a foe.” He turned toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll be getting along. I’m—I’m tired. Good evening!”
“Good evening!” said Mrs. Granger and Captain MacGregor in unison.