“Hazhn’t got no pins,” said Toddie.
“Then we’ll tie it up with a string. Besides, when it’s tied up he can’t get his foots out, an’ forget what a poor little sick doggie he is.”
In another moment the superabundant skirts were folded up and tied tightly around the poor animal’s body, while Toddie, who was having great trouble to hold the stout little beast, exclaimed:
“Gwacious! the fwont end of him is awful well! See how it keeps not keepin’ still. I don’t fink his night-gown collar looksh very nysh, does you?”
“No,” said Budge,” and he’ll go right out of it if we don’t make it look nicer. I’ll put string around that too—there! I want to know if anybody ever saw a lovelier-lookin’ sick dog than that? Where’ll we put him to bed now?”
“Let’s wock him,” Toddie suggested. “Datsh what we likes when we’s sick.”
“Then we got to take him in the house,” said Budge, “’cause there ain’t any way of makin’ believe rockin’-chair. Come on!”
Quietly the couple sneaked into the house and up to their room. Then Budgie resigned his precious burden a moment to Toddie’ care while he went in search of a rocking-chair, with which he shortly returned.
“There!” said he, taking the invalid and seating himself, “this is something like playin’ doctor. But I wonder what kind of medicine he ought to have?—pills or powders?”
“Or running stuff out of a bottle?” suggested Toddie.