Kenneth hastily obeyed, the dogs marching out through the French window, and then sitting down outside and looking patiently in, as dogs gaze who are waiting for bones.
“What was the matter, Max?” asked Kenneth, as soon as they were re-seated, and the breakfast once more in progress.
“That dog took hold of my leg.”
“What, Sneeshing?”
“No, no. The one you call Dirk.”
“He must have thought it was a sheep’s leg.”
“Kenneth!”
“Yes, father?”
“Go on with your breakfast. I hope you are not hurt, Mr Blande?”
“No, sir, not hurt, but it felt very wet and uncomfortable.”