“Why, nothing, ma’am, but his regular food.”
“Did he take his oatmeal this morning as he should?”
“No, ma’am. He never takes it if he can help. He hates it; and when I tried to force him to-day, he was that sharp and snappish I was afraid. There’s a deal of hydrophobia about, I’m hearing.”
“Hydrophobia? Nonsense. What else has he had?”
“I really couldn’t say, ma’am.”
“Somebody must say. Call the cook.”
When Chloe’s black face showed in the parting of the door curtains Miss Lucy hurled her excited inquiries into the placid countenance.
“Chloe, what have you been giving Sir Christopher? against my orders, for nobody except myself and Mary is ever to feed him. What is it? Don’t be so slow. It is important I should know. I may be able to save his life if he is in danger. What? Eh?”
“Well, ma’am,” drawled the negress, in her leisurely way which nothing could alter, “I dunno as I’ve guv him anything to speak of. Nothing wuth mentioning, leastways. Just a little of that nice lobster salad was left from luncheon; and a cup of custard; being more ’an would go in the floating island. Then a mere taste of the ice-cream, out the freezer was meant for the kitchen, an’ he seemed to relish it right well. He licked a right smart of the custard, and as for the lobster, you know yourself, Miss Lucy, he’s always plumb crazy for shell-fish. Not like most dogs, Chrissy isn’t, won’t touch such victuals. He just dotes on anything comes out the salt water, and I——”
Miss Armacost had drawn her slight figure to its utmost height and stood regarding her servant with eyes that fairly blazed her indignation.