Good old Granny was very sharp. She gave me a perfectly amazed look, then she screamed, “Good London—it’s the Granton dog—but black, so black,” she added.
She dashed to the water bucket, seized a towel, wet it, and began to rub my coat.
“It’s dye,” she screamed again. “My goodness! my goodness! my goodness!”
The dear old soul caught me up, bar and chain, dirty and bedraggled, ran to her own bed, and put me on it, then she flew to the telephone that her boys had given her, and called up central.
The girl who answered was called Minnie, and was a particular friend of the old woman’s.
“Minnie,” she gasped, “the police, quick, it’s Granny Gorman speaking. I’ve found the Granton dog that’s been so much advertised. He was over in the cottage by the grove with the sick young man. A man that’s bad enough to steal a dog, would hurt a helpless old woman—quick, Minnie.”
Mrs. Gorman let the receiver drop, flew to the back door, and locked it, flew to the front door, and locked that. Then she put down all the windows, and locked them. Then she got a bottle of milk, and put some in my mouth with a teaspoon.
Never again will anything taste to me as that milk did. My body was frightfully tired, but my mind followed acutely what went on.
Oscar, who had pushed his head under a window shade, and was staring in the direction of the other cottage, gave a warning bark.