Mr. Granton spoke up. “Do you mean to say you had this dog out in California?”
“Yes,” she replied, “in Los Angeles. We used to have such fun. We’d motor to Santa Monica, and go in bathing, and doggie had such good times. What made you leave me, pup?” and she surveyed me good-naturedly.
How I longed for the power of speech! She was a fresh air and fresh water fiend. She used to take me in bathing with her and make me dive under the breakers, and she put cotton wool in her own ears but never a spear in mine, and I got deaf; and then her old man-servant used to bathe me in the garage and get soap in my eyes with his wobbly old hands, and I got angry, and cleared out. I am a clean dog, but I don’t want the hide scoured off me.
Mr. Granton gave me one of his penetrating glances, then he said to Miss Bright-Eyes, “Do you think the dog was happy with you?”
“Happy, certainly,” she replied. “Everything was done for him.”
I barked protestingly.
“Tell us how you treated him,” said Mr. Granton.
“Well, as soon as I had my breakfast, he was with me till lunch time, walking or driving, then he spent the rest of the day with the servants.”
“Interesting servants?” pursued Mr. Granton.