He ran round the chair several times, till he brought himself up close against it; then he tried to unwind himself again, but only became more and more entangled. He pushed the hateful chair backwards till it struck a little table on which was a tray full of dishes. Over went the table, down went the tray, crash went the dishes!
“Yow! yow! yo-o-o-ow!” howled Fido.
“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Bridget, the cook, who came in at that moment; and then—whack! whack! whack! went the broomstick over the poor doggie’s back.
The noise was so great that Mamma came flying down, and nurse and Lucy, too, with the broken soup tureen in her hand.
“Oh, don’t beat him!” cried Lucy, “don’t beat him, Bridget! It was my fault, for I tied him to the chair, and then forgot about him.”
“And why, for the pity’s sake, miss, did ye tie the baste to the chair?” said Bridget, still angry. “Look at every dish I have in the kitchen all broken in smithereens!”
“He would wag his tail while he ate his dinner,” faltered Lucy, “and I wanted to teach him better manners; and so—and so—” But here poor Goosey Lucy broke down completely, and sat down among the shattered dishes, and hugged Fido and wept over him.
And Fido, who had the sweetest temper in the world, wagged the poor abused tail (which had been quickly released by nurse), and forgave her at once.
And Bridget and nurse laughed; and Mamma kissed her little foolish daughter, and bade her not cry any more.
But Lucy had to go to bed, all the same, for Mamma said it was the only proper place for a child who had broken (or caused to be broken, which amounted to the same thing), seventy-two dishes, large and small, in less than half an hour. And I suppose Mamma was right, don’t you?