Miss Johnson barked. There were almost words in that bark, it was so entreating.
"Yes, 'tis. There's nothing you can say will make me think it isn't, and it's very bad for you to run in the heat."
Another bark.
"No, I'm not going to throw it for you. I've told you so over and over. Besides, you ought not to want to run with an old stick when I'm going away so soon. You ought to be glad to sit with me while you can."
But Miss Johnson believed in snatching at the pleasures of the present rather than in preparation for the sorrows of the future. She sat up quite straight and begged beseechingly. Her tiny fore-paws were so irresistible in their appealing waving that Arethusa relented.
"But just this once, only," she warned, as she sat up and reached for the stick.
Miss Johnson jumped about, with excitement at the highest tension; and her mistress lifted that round bit of wood high above her head and threw it with a swing which had far more grace than aim, and all the force she could muster.
And it hit Timothy, stealing up quietly to surprise her, square between the eyes.
"Suffering cats, Arethusa!"
Timothy grabbed Miss Johnson's plaything and continued its flight so very far away that the poor little dog could not find it at all, although she searched most diligently for it for a long, long time.