“He won't hurt you,” cried the child. “Come back, you naughty Fudge!”
“I do not intend he shall,” said the man, reaching down and picking the dog up bodily by the scruff of his neck. “What is the matter, old fellow?” he continued, twisting the dog's head so that he could look into his eyes. “Wanted to make a meal of me?—too bad. Your little daughter, of course, Mr. Kling? A very good breed of dog, my dear young lady—just a little nervous, and that is in his favor. Now, sir, make your excuses to your mistress,” and he placed the terrier in her arms.
The child lifted her face toward his in delight. Most of the men whom Fudge attacked either shrunk out of his way or replied to his attentions with a kick.
“You love dogs, don't you, sir?” she asked. Fudge was now routing his sharp nose under her chin as if in apology for his antics.
“I am afraid I do, and I am glad you do—they are sometimes the best friends one has.”
“Yes,” broke in Kling, “and so am I glad. Dot dog is more as a brudder to my Masie, ain't he, Beesvings? And now you run avay, dear, and play, and take Fudge vid you and say 'Good morning' to Mrs. Cleary, and maybe dot fool dog of Bobby's be home.” He stooped and kissed her, caressing her cheek with his thumb and forefinger, as he pushed her toward the door, and again turned to the stranger. “And now, vot about dot chair you got in your hand?”
“Oh, the chair! I had forgotten that you had asked. Your little daughter drove everything else out of my head. Let me have a closer look.” He swung it round to get a nearer view.
“The legs—that is, three of them—are Chippendale. The back is a nondescript of something—I cannot tell. Perhaps from some colonial remnant.”
“Vot's it vorth?”
“Nothing, except to sit upon.”