“It seems to me that the killing will begin here, probably with a white dog—r-r-rip!” observed Minkie, stooping to dig me in the ribs.
“Mongoose!” I yelled, but she didn’t appear to take any notice.
“I wouldn’t write to dad if I were you,” she continued. “He would simply take sides with Schwartz. But you can write to me, if you like, only you must not wink, nor send postcards.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dorothy will tell you. Come on, Dan, let’s have a look at the warren.”
When we were quite by ourselves Minkie took the ivory doll from her pocket and surveyed it seriously.
“Ju-ju,” she said, “I hope you can really accomplish these wonders, because I’m going to do things, and there will be a fearful row if I don’t succeed.”
I nearly killed twice in ten minutes, but a warren is the deuce and all if some of the holes are not stopped and you have no ferret. When we rejoined the others any dog could see that Dorothy had been crying. Yet she didn’t exactly look miserable, like Jim’s wife looked when her first baby died. Women are queer. Sometimes you can’t tell whether they are glad or sorry, because they weep just the same.
The girls were dressing for dinner when a man in livery came with a wooden box and a note for “Miss Millicent Grosvenor.”