“Yas’m, an’ I would huv be’n here long ago, as I writ, but I lost my bes’ friend and be’n huntin’ him fer more’n an hour.” Again Sam sighed heavily and his eyes were moist.
“Oh, what a pity!” exclaimed Mrs. James. “How did it happen, Sam?”
“Wall, yuh see, Ma’am, I brung him on the baggidge car tied to a rope, an’ when we got off at the Statchun he was that glad to see the green grass and fresh air that he galavanted ’round like a crazy thing. He tuk it inter his head to chase a bird what flied low along the road, and I laffed as I follered after him. But I lost sight of him, down the road, until I got to the Corners. I diden know what way to take there, so I went the most travelled one.
“That’s where I made my mistake. I should hev asked the storekeeper the way to Green Hill. I whistled and called fer a mile, er more, but Grip never showed up. Then I got afraid he was really lost. I turned back and asked the man at the Corners ef he saw’d a dog run by, an’ he said, ‘Yeh, the mutt was chasin’ down the road to Green Hill Farm.’
“I got mad at him fer callin’ Grip a mutt, but I hurried along the road he pointed out. I kep’ on goin’ and callin’, an’ went right by this place widdout knowin’ it. When I came to a farm owned by a man called Ames—a mile down the road,—he tol’ me I was too far. So I come back again. But I hain’t seen no sound of Grip sence.” A heavy sigh escaped Sam and he drew his sleeve across his wet eyes.
Perhaps the sound of the voice reached Grit—or Grip—in the kitchen, or perhaps his canine instinct told him his master was there,—whatever it was, he came bounding out of the house and leaped upon Sam with such force that the little fellow was rolled over backward upon the soft grass.
Grip pawed and rolled over again in his joy at seeing his master again, and the girls stood and shouted aloud with amusement at the scene. When Grip’s violent expression of welcome had somewhat quieted down, Mrs. James said:
“This certainly is a good ending to our adventure.”
Then she proceeded to tell Sam how the girls found Grip on the road, and how fortunate it was that no other tourists had taken him in.
Rachel heard a familiar voice and now came hurrying from her kitchen. “Wall, of all things! Ef it ain’t Sambo! How’de, my son?” exclaimed she, enfolding the little man in her capacious arms.