"I didn't get him," answered Mr. Denton, smiling. "He was wished on me by an unknown admirer of Mavis."
Father extricated Wigglesworth, and holding him firmly—he has been well named—read aloud, from the silver and leather collar which adorned his fascinating neck, "Wigglesworth." Then, looking closer, added, "What's this? 'Property of H.R.H.'?"
I am afraid I looked guilty. Dr. Denton whistled, and stepped nearer the initials in question, or, shall I say, the questionable initials?
I was annoyed to see in how friendly a spirit Wigglesworth received the condescending medical hand upon his quivering ears.
Father is anything but slow. And I have long since let him into the secret of my romantic correspondence.
"So that's it," he began. And heaven alone knows what he might have added had I not held up an imploring hand.
Father, well-trained, subsided. But I didn't quite like the little crease between his brows. It was Mr. Denton, bless him, who saved the situation.
"Take me up to the house, Carroll," he said. "I have half an acre of Connecticut soil on my person." And off they went, arm in arm, with Mr. Denton casting a reassuring look at me over his shoulder.
Alone with Dr. Bill and the frantic Wigglesworth, "Well," I said, "isn't he wonderful?"
"Who?" asked the obtuse creature.