Mrs. Bryan went around to Puppums, who was proudly sitting up on his haunches over his spoils.
“It isn’t ours,” she said, opening the bundle.
“What is it?” asked Winona. “I might as well know the worst.”
“Chops,” answered Mrs. Bryan briefly. “Two pounds of very nice lamb chops, with nothing at all to tell where they belong!”
“Oh, Puppums!” said Winona and Florence together tragically. The rest were all laughing but to Puppums’s family it was far from a laughing matter.
Puppums Merriam was a splendid watch-dog. He was sweet-tempered and intelligent and obedient and cheerful, and everything a family dog should be. But he had one fault. He would occasionally snoop around back porches in search of anything the butcher might have left. The fact that he got three good meals a day, and was losing his figure far too fast for such a young and sprightly dog did not matter to him at all. Neither did he mind the fact that he got a good whipping every time Tom caught him at it. Happy indeed was the week wherein the Merriams did not have to apologetically return roasts or steaks to furious owners; or—if the condition of the prey made it necessary—buy new ones. But this last did not happen very often, for Puppums rarely brought home the bills with him, and it is hard to trace anonymous meat.
So when he proudly presented his contribution to the feast there was nothing to do but to pick up the chops and put them away.
“I can’t spoil the fun by whipping him, and he always thinks my whippings are fun anyway, and wags his tail!” mourned Winona. “And we’ll never know whose chops they were!”
“They’re Puppums’s chops now,” said Louise. “Go on, give ’em to him, Winnie. If you went out and gathered chops you wouldn’t want to be scolded.”
“Well, I suppose he may as well have them,” said Winona still sadly. So, although it was very wrong, and as she explained to the dog, it didn’t create a precedent, soon the collector of chops was happily crunching them outside the back door, while the Camp Fire Girls ate made-over meat within.