“Isn’t he a beauty?” asked Pell, enraptured, as he went down on his knees and flung his arms about the puppy.
“A beauty,” I repeated; and I also went down on my knees to embrace boy and dog.
“He hadn’t had anything to eat for ever so long when I found him. Martha gives me scraps for him, and William lets him sleep in the stable.” Then he looked straight into my eyes. “You won’t tell?” he pleaded. “She wouldn’t let him stay if she knew. She doesn’t like dogs.”
Of course she didn’t like dogs. Hadn’t I felt from the first that she wouldn’t? Why, there wasn’t a dog on the place, except the two black and yellow hounds I had seen half a mile away in the cornfield, and they belonged doubtless to one of the negroes.
“No, I won’t tell,” I promised. “I’ll help you take care of him.”
His eyes shone. “Can you teach him to do tricks? He knows how to beg already. Mammy taught him.”
I released the child quickly and rose to my feet. “Where is your Mammy, Pell?”
His rapid glance flew down the garden walk, and across the narcissi, to the twisted pear tree. “She’s just gone,” he answered. “She went when she saw you coming.”
“Where does she live?”
At this he broke into a laugh. “Oh, she lives away, way over yonder,” he responded, with a sweep of his hand.