This, of course awakened Uncle Tod who sprang from the bench under the gnarled apple tree, rubbed his dazed eyes and cried:
“Has it come? Has it come?”
“Has what come, Uncle Tod?” asked Rick in surprise as he tried to keep Ruddy from excitedly climbing all over him.
“Oh—nothing—nothing,” hastily answered the elderly man who appeared a bit confused at having asked the question. “I guess I was dreaming—yes, I must have been dreaming. But what’s the rush?” he asked, just as Chot had inquired.
“Rick thought Ruddy had been shot,” chuckled his boy chum. “But he’s pretty lively for a shot dog; aren’t you, Ruddy old fellow?” and he fondled the dog’s drooping ears.
“Ruddy shot? What do you mean?” demanded Uncle Tod. “Have those scoundrels—”
Then he checked himself and seemed rather sorry he had been so excited.
“Ruddy’s all right,” he went on more calmly. “He and I have been asleep here under the tree. But what do you mean, Rick—shot?”
“Oh, there’s a rumor down town that a lot of dogs have been shot lately,” said Rick, throwing himself down on the grass, an example followed by Chot, while Ruddy crouched beside them. “Tom Martin said he heard shots around this way, and I thought maybe they were after Ruddy.”
“Who?” asked Uncle Tod, and Chot wondered if the man was still thinking of “scoundrels,” and who these “scoundrels” might be. “Who would shoot Ruddy?” asked Uncle Tod.