“Run, Amarilla, run,” I whispered. “They’re after us, and if they catch us, your trainer will tear me limb from limb.”
Poor little soul, she was too wise to use her breath for speaking. She just tore on behind me, and nearly panted her little life out. I knew by her breathing that she hadn’t been used to having much exercise. I had told her to run behind me, and not to think of automobiles or anything, but just to keep close to my hind paws.
Of course, I led her right back to Broadway. It would have been foolish to keep on toward the Drive, when the man had seen us going in that direction, and would likely get a taxi and follow us. I chose the front of another moving picture place, and made her creep in behind the billboards.
“This is horrible,” she gasped, “right in the jaws of danger.”
“Yes,” I said, “just where they’ll never think of looking for you,” and didn’t we, later on, have the satisfaction of hearing one man say to another, “Hear about Fifeson’s dogs down at the other house?—they’ve lost one—saw her running off with another dog—a white fox-terrier, and can’t find her.”
“How much was she worth to Fifeson?” asked the man addressed.
“He reckons her at five hundred dollars, but I guess he’s romancing.”
Amarilla trembled frightfully, but I reassured her by licking her wounded head, and after a long time, when the crowd was coming out of the theatre, I guided her among ladies’ dresses, and creeping out, we rushed down to the Drive again. Taking advantage of every bit of shadow we could find, we made short runs for home.
It was about eleven when we arrived in front of our apartment-house, and Amarilla was nearly dead.