“Ay, yesterday. I told him he couldn’t see him; or, rather, that if he did, with the dog’s heart as rocky as it was, I would not answer for the result. He did not speak a word after that, except—‘Do your best’; and went out.”
“From what that cousin o’ mine said,” put in Bill, “I judge if he’d come in, it would a-killed the dog right off.” He was smoothing Murphy’s ears as he spoke.
“I told him,” continued Mr. Charles, “that two things were especially against this dog; one was his high breeding, and the other, his brain development. It’s the last I’m most afraid of, though.”
“Brain? Clever?” put in Bill—“I should just say he was.”
“—And I told him that I had never seen a dog that was easier to treat; and that he was making a real plucky fight for it.”
“That’s true,” said Bill, in a tone as if the words had been “Amen.”
“—And that he was that sensible that he allowed us to do just as we liked with him; so good and patient that there was not a man in the yard that wasn’t glad to do anything for him.”
“True again,” broke in Bill, with emphasis.—“Murphy,” he said, calling the dog by name. “Whew! Another hot day, I judge; coming light afore long.” Bill was looking at the sky.
“All against him; all against him,” returned the other. “But there, I shall be downright sorry if we lose him now.”
Bill shook his head. “See all as has been done ... and the telegrams ... and the letters, and ...”