‘Well, I can’t say,’ was the answer; ‘he haven’t no love for dumb creatures, that’s certain, though he isn’t what you could call a cruel man. Anyway, it won’t do no harm to keep Punch out of his way for a little.’
Emmeline talked to Cook and Punch for a minute or two longer, and then went back into the garden. Unfortunately Mr. Brown, too, had returned by this time, so it was plainly hopeless to think of taking out the blankets yet, even when Cook left the yard. Meanwhile Punch, left alone in the dull back-yard, was feeling himself a very much injured dog. He proclaimed the fact to the world by a series of yelping barks, but he was an animal of a philosophic turn of mind, so it presently struck him that, since he was chained up at this untimely hour, he might as well retire into his kennel and go to sleep comfortably in the snug dark corner at the very back.
Ah! That special corner was already occupied by something woolly and unfamiliar—something which crowded Punch uncomfortably, something which was, in fact, nothing more nor less than one of the spare room blankets! It had fallen a little from the tumbled heap in which Micky had pushed it, so that it now took up a good deal more room than it had done in the morning.
If Punch had been in a sleepier or lazier mood he might have managed to make it into a cosy nest for himself. As it was, he chose to pretend that it was a giant white rat, and to treat it accordingly. It was really an ideal game for a bored fox-terrier—from the bored fox-terrier’s own point of view, that is.
Unfortunately, Jane’s point of view was a different one, and when she presently came into the back-yard to hang up some odds and ends that she had been washing, and found Punch worrying a great heap of defenceless blanket which was protruding from his kennel, her horror and indignation knew no bounds. She could hardly believe her own eyes indeed, till she had come close up to the kennel and bent down to examine Punch’s plaything. Yes, it really was a blanket!
‘It’s them children again!’ she cried wrathfully. ‘Why, bless me’—with a voice growing shriller and shriller—‘bless me, if it isn’t one of them new blankets we got special for the spare room!’
Cook and Alice came running out into the yard to see what was the matter, and Punch, who had left off worrying the blanket, began wagging his tail nervously. He was not used to holding such a levée, and felt more embarrassed than gratified at all the attention which was being paid him.
‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Cook, as Jane gave such a violent tug to that part of the blanket which was lying outside the kennel that the rest of it also emerged. ‘However on earth did it get there?’
‘It’s them wicked children, of course,’ said Jane, angrily. ‘And if I don’t make them sorry for it, my name isn’t Jane Martin!’
‘Oh, we can trust you for that!’ remarked Cook. ‘But I must say this do beat everything. Cheer up, Punch, old boy! Nobody’s going to hurt you.’ She was just bending down to pat him reassuringly, when she uttered a sudden exclamation: ‘Why, I do believe there’s another of them! There! Come you out, Punch. Yes, there really is.’