Tim was crouching in the middle of the floor, his face close down to Tip’s nose, and his arms clasped so tightly around the dog’s neck that it seemed as if he would choke him.
That was the scene Mrs. Simpson looked in upon after she had been nearly frightened out of her senses by a strange dog while she was cooking breakfast. She had tried to turn the intruder out-of-doors; but he, thinking she wanted to play with him, had acted in such a strange and at the same time familiar manner, that she had become afraid, and the confusion which had awakened the boys had been caused by both, when neither knew exactly what to do.
Mrs. Simpson stood at the room door looking in fully half a minute before she could speak, and then she asked, “What is the meaning of this, Samuel?”
Sam made no reply, but buried his face deeper in the pillows, while the ominous shaking of his fat body told that he was getting ready to cry in advance of the whipping he expected to receive.
“Who is this boy?” asked the lady, finding that her first question was likely to receive no reply.
Sam made no sign of life, and Tim, knowing that something must be said at once, replied piteously, “Please, ma’am, it’s only me an’ Tip.”
Sam’s face was still buried in the pillows; but the trembling had ceased, as if he was anxious to learn whether his companion could extricate himself from the position into which he had been led.
“Who are you, and how did you come here?” asked Mrs. Simpson, wonderingly.
Tim turned toward the bed, as if he expected Sam would answer that question; but that young man made no sign that he had even heard it, and Tim was obliged to tell the story.