"A man I not know. Cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad."
"Did he spell his name?" cried Ben, breathlessly.
"No; that for why man beat him. He name Generale, and he go spell Sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. Ha! yes! that name true one; not Generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands, and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys.
"It's Sanch! let's go and get him now, right off! cried Ben, in a fever to be gone.
"A hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? We must wait a little, Ben, and be sure before we set out," said Miss Celia, ready to do almost any thing, but not so certain as the boys. "What sort of a dog was it? A large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she asked of Giacomo.
"No, Signorina mia, he no curly, no wite; he black, smooth dog, littel tail, small, so;" and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a short, wagging tail.
"There, you see how mistaken we were. Dogs are often named Sancho, especially Spanish poodles; for the original Sancho was a Spaniard, you know. This dog is not ours, and I'm so sorry."
The boys' faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but Ben would not give up. For him there was and could be only one Sancho in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one else thought of.
"It may be my dog,—they color 'em as we used to paint over trick horses. I told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see? because we'd know him."
"But the black dog had no tail," began Thorny, longing to be convinced, but still doubtful.