“Now I am traveling again,” thought the Dog to himself, as he felt Mr. Blakeley carrying him out to the car. James had mended the puncture and had called at the rich man’s office as he did every afternoon.
“Home, sir?” asked James, touching his cap as he closed the door after Mr. Blakeley had entered the car.
“No, to my sister’s house. You know where it is, James?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s Donald’s birthday,” explained Mr. Blakeley, and the chauffeur smiled as he caught a glimpse, through the torn paper, of the Woolly Dog.
Donald Cressey lived with his father and mother in a pleasant little house just outside the big city, and when Donald’s mother saw her brother’s large car coming to a stop in front of her home she called:
“Oh, Donald, here’s Uncle Teddy!”
“Has he brought my birthday present?” asked the little boy, as he eagerly raced to the door.
“You mustn’t expect Uncle Teddy to bring you a present each birthday,” replied his mother, for she did not want Donald to look for too much.
“Oh, but he always brings me something when I get a year older,” the boy murmured. “Don’t you think he will this time?”