VI
We had gone about two miles when the sight of my greyhounds tied behind the farm cart made me think of my little Boston bull.
"Where's Betsy?" I asked of those perched on the hay.
Julie, Nini and Yvonne grew white.
It took little time to discover that no one had seen her that morning. It was evident she had been forgotten—left to die tied to the brass rail inside an abandoned bakery, for it was there I had fastened her on arriving the night before. Pedaling ahead till I reached Leon who led the procession—
"Keep straight on this road. If it should fork, take the direction of the La Ferte Gauche. I'll be back in no time." Then turning about, I started a parallel race with an autobus, much to the delight of the occupants.
Useless to say that my adversary gained on the up-grade, turned the corner, was gone, and was followed by another long before I reached the public square, breathless and full of anxiety.
Rebais was empty—not even a tardy refugee straggled by the wayside, and before I reached the bakery I could hear the plaintive howls of my little brute.
What a joyful welcome I received. What hilarious waggings of that little screw tail! But, there was no time to be lost, for the problem now was how Betsy was to catch up with the procession. She was too heavy for me to carry under my arm, and too old and puffy to be expected to follow a bicycle—but it was one or the other, and tying her leash to the handle bar, off we started, after an encouraging pat on the head and the promise of a lump of sugar if she would only "be a good girl."
On we sped, past the huge lumbering motorbuses, which terrified the poor animal who tugged vehemently at her string, at times almost choking herself.