When Paul had gone out, Grandma turned to Maureen and Grandpa. "Now you two wash up so's I can tell who's who. And for pity's sake, use that naphtha soap. If'n I had any sense at all, I'd go around this house with a clothespin twigged onto my nose."
Grandpa's face broadened into a grin. "Humpf! A sea-captain's daughter complainin' 'bout a little bilge water."
Suddenly Maureen shushed Grandpa and held up a warning finger. "Listen!"
Faint and far off, like something in a dream, came a sound like a dog's barking. Then it faded away and stopped. They all stood still—waiting, listening. For long seconds they heard nothing. Only the clock hammering and the fire crackling in the stove.
But there! It came again. Louder this time. Nearer! A gruff, rusty bark, then three short yaps, familiar, beloved.
In one stride Grandpa was at the door. He flung it wide and a flash of golden fur bulleted into the room, skidding across the wet floor until it reached Maureen.
"Skipper! Skipper!" she cried, hugging him passionately, wildly.
