A shudder ran through the Fifeson dogs. They all hated the sight and sound of a bottle, for it was when their master was drunk that he beat them most.
A thought came to me. I whispered to Cannie, “Come on home with me,” and followed by him, and taking the shortest cut known to us dogs, we just galloped back to the Pleasant River house.
Master was still dreaming on the veranda. “Stay here and watch the house,” I said to Cannie, “I’m going to take him back with me.”
It was the work of an instant, to spring at master’s arm and look at him with my most burning glance.
“All right, old fellow,” he said; “I’ll go with you.”
He turned round, glanced at Cannie who was sitting close to the door, not very well pleased at being left out of the fun, then ran, actually ran, to the garage with me, for he saw the occasion required haste, and got out his new French racing car. I sprang to the seat, barked in the direction of Green Hill, and in a few minutes, we streaked up in front of the Bonstones’ house.
The callers departed, when master arrived. Gringo said they had been there for an age. Master sat down, and the Bonstones began talking to him, but he didn’t say much.
He kept looking at me, and presently I led the way to the syringa bushes. He saw the dogs sitting round, and said in a low voice, “Hello! there—come out, whoever you are.”
I thought to myself: master is a clever man, the Bonstones are clever people, but not one of them knows what we dogs have sensed—namely that there is a man in the bushes, and we know all about him, except his business here, which, however, we are sure is of a pacific nature, and not criminal. And some people say, dogs are not clever!
The bushes parted, and Fifeson came out, looking very hot and sticky. He is a weasel-faced little man. With that appearance, I don’t see how he can be a decent chap, but he’s making a brave fight for it. I hated him almost as much as the other dogs, and with a growl, I stepped aside for him to pass me. I did not want the brute to touch me.