“Her legs remind me of feather dusters,” Amy remarked pertly.
“It looks to me as if she were trying to revive the fashion of pantalets,” suggested Priscilla.
Peggy was forced to join in the general laugh. “Her legs may not be much to look at, girls,” she admitted, “but those feathers are a sign of Breed.” And with this master-stroke she led the way back to the kitchen, the dog, who had followed them into the woodshed, with every appearance of being at home, stalking at her heels.
“Peggy,” Priscilla inquired suspiciously, “have you fed that dog again this morning?”
“He’s a splendid watch-dog,” replied Peggy, evading a direct answer. “He wouldn’t let Joe come near the house.”
“I suppose that means you’ve decided to add a dog to your menagerie.”
“I don’t think I’ve been consulted about it,” laughed Peggy. “He took matters into his own hands,–or, I should say, teeth.”
“Probably you’ve named him already.”
“Of course. His name is Hobo,” answered Peggy on the spur of the moment, and Priscilla replied with dignity that he looked the part, and returned to her cooling dish water.
“It really isn’t safe picking up a strange dog that way,” Claire murmured, sympathetically, as she reached for a dish towel. “He might turn on us at any minute.” Priscilla whose criticism had been only half serious, found the implication annoying, and when, under her stress of feeling, she set a tumbler down hard, and cracked it, the experience did not tend to relieve her sense of vexation.