“Lettice!” she exclaimed, in a species of exasperated concern, “don’t you know better than to sit up to all hours?”
IV
The following morning, “Oh, Gordon!” Lettice cried, “I like him ever so much; he played and played with me.”
Gordon had gone to the post-office, and was descending the slope from the public road to his dwelling. He found Lettice sitting on the edge of the porch, and, panting vigorously, the dog extended before her, an expression of idiotic satisfaction on his shaggy face. They were, together, an epitome of extreme youth; and Gordon’s discontent, revived from the night before, overflowed in facile displeasure.
“Don’t you know better than to run him on a warm morning like this?” he complained; “as like as not now he’ll take a fit; young dogs mustn’t get their blood heated up.”
The animation died from her countenance, leaving it almost sullen, her shoulders drooped dejectedly. “It seems nothing suits you,” she observed; “you’re cross when I don’t like the dog and you’re cross when I do. I can’t satisfy you, anyhow.”
“There’s some difference in making over the dog and playing him out. Come here, General Jackson.” The animal rose and yapped, backing playfully away. “Don’t you hear me? Come right here.” The dog, sensitive to the growing menace in the voice, moved still further away. “C’m here, damn you,” Gordon shot out. The dog grew stubborn, and refused to move forward; and Gordon, his anger thoroughly aroused, picked up a large stone and threw it with all his force, missing General Jackson by a narrow margin.
“It seems to me,” Lettice observed in a studiously detached voice, “I wouldn’t throw stones at a dog I had paid two hundred dollars for.”