All this time the little man in the velvet coat kept careful watch over Dibble and the dog; and by-and-by, when the man who had been spinning the penny went out with a person in an overcoat and tights (who had been standing on his head in the villages through which he passed, and doing other funny tricks upon a square piece of carpet), the little man went and sat beside Dibble, at whom he nodded pleasantly, and for whose especial behoof he tapped a nose somewhat flattened by hard usage and dirty weather.
“I forgives yer, old gal, I forgives yer,” he said, directing one eye towards the dog’s hiding-place, and winking at Dibble with the other.
Whereupon the dog came forth, rubbed his bony sides against Dibble’s legs, and licked the porter’s dusty boots.
“Oh, this is the gent whose bin keind to yer,—eh, Mistress Momus?” said the man, nodding pleasantly to Dibble.
The dog gave a short bark, and rubbed herself once more against Dibble.
“Well, well, I forgives yer, Momus,” said the man again, but this time in a softer voice, and with a coaxing kindliness which the dog seemed to understand.
“Come, then, old gal; stand up and make him a bow,” he went on, motioning to the dog with his hand.
Dibble’s companion stood up as it had done in the corn-field, bowed gravely to Dibble, and raised a forepaw to its head, like charity school-boys on an inspection day.
“You’ve not fed the dawg too much, guvner,” said the man, patting the dog’s head, and addressing Dibble.
“I only saw un this afternoon,” said Dibble, “for the first time, and I never see a dog so hungry and so quiet over it, nor one half so funny; I began to be afeared he wor something evil, he acted so much like a Christian, surely,” said Dibble.