“Mister,” exclaimed Gringo, “do you suppose he knows? Not a word of it. Women keep little tricks like that to themselves.”
“Well, I hope he won’t kill her,” I said. “I wish we could do something to help her.”
“Maybe we can,” said Gringo with a knowing air. “Our owners don’t know how much help they get from dogs.”
Old Gringo’s prophecy came true, and in rather a funny way, later on.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHOWMAN’S DOGS
It was six months ago that the twins came, and now they are fine healthy young babies, being pushed round in their perambulator all over the place by their nurse, who is so well-trained and so up-to-date that she is over-trained or “fine” as Gringo says.
Gringo and I were watching them one day a few weeks ago, as we sat side by side up in the orchard at the Bonstones’. This orchard is a little one containing very old trees, and is never ploughed. It is a lovely shady place to rest, for the grass is kept short and is soft as a carpet. It has become quite a social meeting-place for the dogs of the neighbourhood, and we often discuss things there.
“Fine babies, those,” I remarked.