“I—never—said you—had,” Mary gulped out. He rubbed his nose in a way that he had when he was puzzled.
“If it's anything I do, tell me. It's so silly always crying. The holidays will be over soon, and you've done nothing but cry.”
“You're—never—with me—now,” Mary sobbed.
“Well, I've been busy.”
“You haven't. You can't be busy all—by yourself.”
“Oh, yes, you can.” He was getting impatient. “Anyway, you might let Hamlet and me alone. You're always bothering one of us.”
“No, I'm not.” She choked an enormous sob and burst out with: “It's always Hamlet now. I wish he'd never—come. It was much nicer before.”
Then he lost his temper. “Oh, you're a baby! I'm sick of you and your nonsense,” he cried, and stamped off.
In Mary's red-rimmed eyes, as she watched him go, determination grew.
It happened that upon the afternoon of that same day Miss Jones announced that she would take Mary for a walk; then, just as they passed through the farm gates, Hamlet, rushing out, joined them. He did not often honour them with his company, despising women most especially when they walked, but to-day his master was busy digging for worms in the vegetable garden, and, after a quarter of an hour's contemplation of this fascinating occupation, he had wandered off in search of a livelier game. He decided to join Miss Jones; he could do what he pleased, he could amuse himself with her ineffectual attempts to keep him in order, and he could irritate Mary; so he danced along, with his tail in the air, barking at imaginary rats and poking his nose into hedges.