GENTLEMAN.”
“There!” cried Dot, as though this settled the controversy. “What did I tell you? He can’t be any tramp dog. He’s a gentleman.”
“‘Tom Jonah,’” murmured Agnes. “What a funny name!”
When Ruth came home the younger girls bore her off at once to see Tom Jonah sleeping comfortably on the porch. The old dog raised his grizzled muzzle, wagged his tail, and beamed at her out of his soft brown eyes.
“The dear love!” cried Tess, clasping her hands. “Isn’t he beautiful, Ruthie?”
“Beautifully dirty,” said Ruth, doubtfully.
“Oh, but Uncle Rufus says he will wash him to-morrow. He’s got some insect—insecty-suicide soap like he puts on the henroosts——”
“Insecticide, Dot,” admonished Tess. “I wish you wouldn’t try to say words that you can’t say.”
Dot pouted. But Ruth patted her head and said, soothingly:
“Never mind, honey. We’ll let the poor dog stay till he rests up, anyway. He looks like a kind creature.”