One day when I was following her about the house, she came suddenly into the nursery, and stopped short, gazing at the two children.
There stood Montmorency, dressed in a dainty suit of pale blue, uttering a succession of queer, uncouth sounds which all seemed to begin with “G,” and teaching a vulgar little trick to her beloved George. The trick wasn’t very bad, but George was so much cleverer than Montmorency that he added some details of his own, that made me grin, but which brought a frown to her face.
She caught George to her, and sat staring at the little stranger. After a while, master strolled into the nursery.
“That child belongs most decidedly to a different stratum in society,” she exclaimed, “a much lower one,” and she told him about the trick, which was a spitting one.
“I believe you’re right, Claudia,” said master thoughtfully, and he too stared and stared at young Montmorency, who was polishing off his funny little nose on his clean tunic.
I ran toward master, and pushed my paw against his knee—a habit I have when I wish to attract his attention, or have a conversation with him. Of course, this is not good manners for a well-trained dog. All dogs should keep their paws on the ground where they belong, but I was allowed this liberty by my kind master, and I took care never to abuse it.
“By Jupiter!” he cried, which is the nearest he ever comes to a swear-word. “I believe Boy has nosed out something about that child. Claudia, please keep George quiet for a few minutes.”
Master fixed a steady gaze on me, and I stared full into his eyes. We were concentrating. “Boy,” he said at last, “that child comes from New York, doesn’t he?”
I barked once, sharp and clear.
“You smell a New York smell on him?” said master.