“Oh!” cried Tess. “You said yourself, Uncle Rufus, that those Gypsies that stopped here might be looking at Ruth’s chickens.”
“Well, I done guess dat tramp dawg knows when he’s well off,” said the old man, chuckling suddenly. “He’s layin’ down lak’ he’s fixin’ tuh stay—ya-as’m!”
The dog had crept to the most sheltered corner of the porch and curled up on an old rag mat Mrs. MacCall had left there for the cats.
“He ought to have that dirty old rope taken off,” said Agnes.
Uncle Rufus drew out his clasp knife and opened the blade. He approached the weary dog and knelt down to remove the rope.
“Glo-ree!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “He done got er collar on him.”
It was hidden in the thick hair about the dog’s neck. The three girls crowded close to see, Uncle Rufus unbuckled it and handed the leather strap to Agnes.
“See if there is any name and address on it, Aggie!” gasped Tess. “Oh! I hope not. Then, if we don’t know where he came from, he’s ours for keeps.”
There was a small brass plate; but no name, address, or license number was engraved upon it. Instead, in clear script, it was marked:
“THIS IS TOM JONAH. HE IS A