The Gray Gentleman stooped and searched for the dog’s wings.
“Well, ran, then,” laughed Bonny-Gay, “and he drove them all off and they had revolvers or something and one was shot and a policeman caught him and Max was shot and the gardener would have been killed—”
“Only he wasn’t,” interrupted somebody, coming from behind them.
So the child paused in her breathless description of a scene she had often pictured to herself and looked up into the face of the hero of the affair, himself.
“Why, Mr. Weems! you almost frightened me! and you please tell the rest.”
But though the gardener smiled upon her he nodded his head gravely.
“Guess it won’t do for me to think about that just now, or any other of our good times, old Max! Good fellow, fine fellow! Poor old doggie! It’s going to be as hard on you as on me, I’m afraid.”
By this time Bonny-Gay saw that something was amiss. She half fancied that there were tears in the keeper’s eyes, and she always afterward declared that there were tears in his voice. As for Max, that sagacious animal sank suddenly upon his haunches, looked sternly into his master’s face, and demanded by his earnest, startled expression to know what was wrong. Something was. He knew that, even more positively than did Bonny-Gay.
“It’s an outrageous law. There ought to be exceptions to it. All dogs—Well, there’s no other dog like Max. Ah! hum. Old doggie!”
The Gray Gentleman was tempted to ask questions, but the little girl was sure to do that; so he waited. In a few minutes she had gotten the whole sad story from her old friend, the gardener, and her sunny head had gone down upon the dog’s black one in a paroxysm of grief.