No barking sounded from Mrs. Cheever's house. They found her kitchen empty, but the rustling range and the ticking clock made it seem occupied.
"She's in her bog-garden, I'll be bound," Mr. Payton surmised, glancing into the square of looking glass above the sink and smoothing out his mustache. "Well, come along, Philosophers; we'll go and see."
"Her and Julian are Philosophers—" Foster started to say, but Portia interrupted him. "She and Julian, you mean, Foster."
"She and Julian are Philosophers, Uncle Pin, but me and Davey—"
"Foster! Davey and I," corrected his sister.
"—but Davey and I belong to another club, the Club of the Fang," Foster said proudly. "I'm the one that thought it up."
"I see. Very well then, come along Philosophers and Fangs."
So they went out again, by the front door this time, and there, yes, there beyond the reeds, beyond the water meadow and the dead tree that marked the entrance to the bog, they spotted Mrs. Cheever's bell-shaped hat.
"Further I shall not go," Mr. Payton stated. "I do not care for wading and I've brought no boots. Minnie's busy in her garden, and I'll return to mine. Farewell, Philosophers. Farewell, Fangs."
"Good-by, Uncle Pin."