There might have been trouble about this question if the excited Widow had not suddenly yelled, "Those sinful pigs—look at them! My garden, oh! my garden. They're ruining it."
She did not know, but I did, that old Sir Vet, really anxious about Guardie and Girlie, had led his whole band of retainers by a short cut through the Widow's garden to the back door.
There was a great scene now of pushing and pulling and driving and calling—children and grown persons, dogs, ponies, and pigs all mixed up together, and above the clamour rose Cassowary's shrill voice, "My angel collies! they are burnt to death."
They weren't burnt to death, but their paws were certainly sore and bleeding, and the hair was scorched all off their backs. They were trying to round up the pigs and get them off the Widow's hollyhocks, Bouncing Bets, sweet Williams and other old-fashioned flowers that she loved, but at every other step they fell down and rose with difficulty.
"Home! home!" cried Cassowary, and leaping on Apache Girl she held out her arm to Dallas, who put Guardie in front of her.
Big Chief took Girlie and we all scurried away from the Widow's to Devering Farm.
Dallas and I, who kept ahead, dashed up to the veranda, notified Mr. Devering, who was still sitting there, and he was in his office all ready to receive the suffering dogs by the time they arrived.
He put up a hand to stop the children's noise. Their aunt had fallen asleep and he did not wish her to be waked up.
After Mr. Devering had treated the burns with some oily substance and bound them up to keep the air out, he said to the children, "Take the collies to the barn cellar. They would be miserable away from the pigs."
Dallas watched with interest the erection of a kind of platform containing comfortable beds for the collies, and where the pigs could look at them but not touch them. Then he said, "What about our ride?"