“I should judge you were a pointer by your nose,” said Bob, addressing the only puppy who could be said to have an attempt at the feature. “This may be a Newfoundland,” referring to one whose nose they would not have discovered but for the end of a wee pair of nostrils. “They’re a splendid lot, poor babies! It’s a clear case of desertion, Billy. We mustn’t leave them here without food another moment.”
Billy lifted the rusty old pan and clasped it tenderly against his jacket. Then they stepped briskly towards the stile, for the graveyard was by no means the tempting place it had been two hours ago.
“Keep an eye out for my father,” said Billy. “They make such a noise they may get us into trouble.”
But by sometimes crossing streets and turning corners suddenly, sometimes running and sometimes dodging, they succeeded in reaching the barn without encountering friend or acquaintance who would betray them.
“Take them in and make them at home on the hay while I go for their supper,” said Bob.
At the barn door Billy and the puppies were received by no less a person than Timothy, the coachman, who had consented to give the orphans a temporary asylum. He also bent gravely and critically over the pan; but his verdict did not agree with Bob’s.
“Mongrel, very mongrel,” said Timothy, shaking his head.
The fact that they belonged to his own humble rank in life may possibly have increased his sympathy; but it is certain that no orphaned kittens could have roused such emotions of pity in his manly breast. He had a corner ready, cushioned with hay; and they were soon rubbing against something better adapted to their tender sides than cold tin. But though they nestled in the hay as if they liked it, their wails continued, and they soon began to toddle about in search of food. When Bob came bringing it, however, Timothy shook his head and said:
“Ten chances to one against touching a drop, Billy. I’ve known ’em to die rather than drink it out of a saucer at that age.”
A vision of seven little puppies wailing and toddling to their doom, of seven cold, stiff forms, seven green graves in a row, clouded Billy’s fancy for a moment. But no, he would not accept such dark possibilities. The puppies must be tenderly persuaded what was for their good; and canine reason must triumph over mere brute prejudice.