Hobo’s head disappeared from the window. The dog ran back, crouching for a spring. Unluckily the screen had been removed from that particular window the previous day, when Peggy had discovered a break through which the flies were entering, and the window itself had been lowered till the necessary repairs could be made. Just as Graham was beginning to think that the fun was losing its zest, a heavy body launched itself against the glass.
Hobo was a large dog, and since he had become a member of the family at Dolittle Cottage the hollows of his gaunt frame had been filling out rapidly. With such a projectile hurled against a window, the result could not be in doubt. There was a startling crash. Pieces of glass flew in all directions, and Hobo, bleeding from several wounds, struggled through the splintered aperture made by the force of his spring, and leaped at the young man who had disturbed the peace of the cottage.
For all Hobo’s injuries, there was plenty of fight in him yet, and the consequences might have been serious if Peggy had not arrived upon the scene at the critical moment. Her stern command, “Down, Hobo! Down, sir!” emphasized by stamps of her foot had a magical effect. The poor, bleeding, bewildered creature, who had stopped at nothing to protect a member of the household which commanded his fealty, recognized in Peggy the ultimate authority. The tense muscles, bent for a spring, instantly relaxed. The lip dropped over the bared teeth. With a whimper the poor brute crouched at Peggy’s feet, and Peggy saw with sickened dismay that the blood was oozing from gashes in the dog’s neck.
“Graham!” she gasped. “Oh, Graham! He’s hurt! He’s bleeding dreadfully!”
Graham’s temporary lapse into the sins of his youth was over. He was again a young college man, and thoroughly ashamed of himself. The amusement he had found in teasing Ruth suddenly seemed inexplicable, in view of this tragic culmination. Flushing and awkward, he stood looking on while Peggy bent over the wounded dog, unable to restrain her tears. But when she attempted to remove a splinter of glass from the gash for which it was responsible, Graham uttered a startled protest.
“I wouldn’t try that, Peggy. He’s likely to bite you.”
“Oh, he won’t bite me,” Peggy returned confidently. “He knows I’m his friend, don’t you, poor old fellow?” Hobo, realizing that the loved voice was addressing him, even though the trend of the question was beyond his comprehension, gave a feeble flop of his tail, and raised to Peggy’s face eyes full of loyalty and trust.
The living-room became a hospital forthwith. Those of the girls who were affected with unpleasant qualms at the sight of blood, fled precipitately, while the others lent aid to Peggy, who had taken upon herself the double rôle of operating surgeon and chief nurse. Several ugly splinters of glass were removed from the bleeding neck, and the wounds bathed and bandaged. Graham’s usefulness in the operation was confined to offering advice; for once, when he had extended his hand to assist Peggy, the light of battle had again kindled in Hobo’s eyes, and a low, rumbling growl had voiced his objections to any ministrations from so objectionable a source.
When Peggy’s patient was swathed in bandages, till he looked as if he might be suffering from a severe attack of sore throat, Peggy called him out into the woodshed, where an inviting bed had been made ready for him. Hobo stretched himself upon the folded rug with a groan startlingly human. It was clear that the loss of blood had weakened him, and his gaze directed to Peggy was full of pathetic questioning and dumb appeal.
“I believe I’ll run over to the Coles, and ask them if there is anything more we can do,” Peggy said, looking as unhappy as she felt. “They know so much about all kinds of animals. I’ve taken care of Taffy in his attacks of distemper, and once he had a dreadful fight with another dog, and came home all torn. But he didn’t bleed like this.”