When my dear master told me this his eyes were sparkling with joy.
“It is just possible, Shireen,” he said, “that Beebee herself may be there, if so—”
He did not finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant.
And now, said Shireen, here come the children, so my little story must end for a time. But you’ll come again, won’t you, Cracker?
“Oh, like a shot, Shireen,” said Cracker, “you bet.”
“Oh!” cried Tom, running up. “Come quick, Lizzie. Here is Cracker, the dog that saved Shireen’s life, and gave the butcher’s bull-terrier such a shaking. Poor doggie Cracker. Poor dear doggie, you won’t bite, will you?”
The towsy tyke looked up into the boy’s face and wagged his thick, short stump of a tail at a terrible rate, and there was so much kindness and affection in those brown eyes of his, that Tom at once bent down and threw his arms about his rough and grizzled neck.
Then Lizzie, who had been to fetch some milk, came and placed it down before Cracker.
Cracker really didn’t want it, but he drank it rather than anybody should think him ungrateful.
“Mind,” said Tom, “you must come to the Castle to-morrow afternoon. It is Shireen’s birthday, and we are going to give a party.”