He couldn’t seem to get over his tippling for a long time after he came to Green Hill—not until something happened.
I have referred before to my conversation with Gringo about Master Carty’s troublesome habit. The good old dog never mentioned the tiresome young man, till three months after that, when one day, as he and I were taking a stroll in the young orchard to get some of a new kind of young grass that was springing up about the baby trees, and that was very good for our stomachs, we saw Master Carty taking a short cut across to the house. There was a gentle hill in the orchard, and just as our naughty young man got near it, out came a flask from his pocket. He was just going to take a long pull out of it, when old Gringo pretended to see a mouse in the earth, gave chase, and stumbled in front of the self-indulgent young man.
Ordinarily Gringo doesn’t worry about the mice. He’s not that kind of a dog. One of my duties is to hunt them, so they won’t hide under the snow in winter, and girdle the fruit trees.
Well, away went the flask. I sprang to pick it up, grabbed it, held it carefully neck down, and laid it at Master Carty’s feet.
He praised me, and aimed a kick at Gringo. The old dog stared at him thoughtfully, and didn’t say anything, but the next day he played a fine trick on him.
It was a pouring wet day, but still Mrs. Granton and George Washington had gone over in the limousine to spend the day with Mrs. Bonstone, Cyria and the twins.
The air was so warm that they were all sitting out on the partly covered-in veranda. The rain beat against the glass, but Cyria and our baby were snug inside, playing with a Noah’s ark and a box of blocks. The two little tots sat on a rug, and the twin babies lay asleep in a pretty swinging cot. Mrs. Bonstone lounged in a reclining chair beside them, and my mistress rocked and talked and knitted a sock for George Washington.
I was in a corner, having an after-lunch nap. Human beings would do well if they could imitate dogs, and throw themselves down for a rest after eating. Usually, they get up from the table and fly at their work harder than ever.
After a while, I thought I would go up to the barn and see what the other dogs were doing, for no one was in sight but Amarilla, who never ventured far from Mrs. Granton.