On rainy days, it was the custom for the dogs to assemble on the barn floor to have a gossip.
I found the whole bunch up there, every one with lip curled, and indulging in a hearty fit of dog laughter. Even Gringo, who was not too old to enjoy a joke, was just shaking with dog amusement. The polite Frenchmen were giggling, while the nervous Yeggie ran up and down, squealing and yapping with delight. Czarina’s aristocratic lip was curled high in enjoyment, and Weary Winnie, forgetting her laziness, was rolling over and over in the hay ki-yiing with glee.
Sir Walter Scott was missing; probably he was huddled in one of the hen-houses and letting the chicken Betsy roost on his back to keep her feet from getting damp.
“What’s the joke, boys?” I asked.
“Let me speak, oh! let me speak,” said the dancing Yeggie. “Mr. Carty comes home by the train, he has to walk from the station, ’cause there’s nobody’s car there to give him a lift. Yeggie happens to be down there calling on a friend, Yeggie follows him home.”
This dog always speaks of himself by his name, instead of using a pronoun. He is a silly little fellow, yet lovable, and he has occasional strains of sense.
“Well,” I said. “I don’t see any joke yet, but go on, and don’t jump up and down the whole time you’re talking.”
Yeggie continued, “Master Carty’s rubber stuck in the mud, Master Carty said a naughty word, and stooped down to pull it on. Yeggie saw something wicked in his pocket.”
“A flask, I suppose,” I said.