“What’s the matter?” cried The Mackhai.
“Nothing, sir;—I—that is—that dog—”
Kenneth was seized with a violent fit of laughing and choking, which necessitated his getting up from the table and being thumped on the back by Grant; while Dirk, who had been the cause of all the trouble, marched slowly out from under the table, and stood upon the hearthrug uttering a low growl, and looking from one to the other of the boys, as if he felt that they were insulting him.
“Look here, Kenneth, if you cannot behave yourself at table,” cried The Mackhai angrily, “you had better have your meals by yourself.”
“I—I—oh dear!—oh, oh, oh! I beg your pardon, father, I—oh, I say, Max, don’t look like that, or you’ll kill me!” cried Kenneth, laughing and choking more than ever.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Max piteously. “I’m afraid it was all my fault;” and he looked at the stained cloth.
“There is no need for any apology, Mr Blande. Here, Grant, lay a doubled napkin over this place, and bring another cup. Pray sit down, sir.”
Max turned shrinkingly toward the table, but glanced nervously from one dog to the other, and just at that moment, Bruce, who was behind, smelt his legs.
“Oh!” cried Max, making a rush, as he felt the touch of the dog’s cold nose.
“Here, Kenneth, I’ve said before that I will not have those dogs in the dining-room!” cried The Mackhai angrily. “Turn them out.”