“Well, not particularly. All old ones—they belonged to my grandmother.”
“H’m,” murmured Mr. Granton thoughtfully, “and he would be younger then than he is now, and he’s lively yet. Where did you get him?”
“Bought him from a man in the street,” said Miss Pursell. “He said he found him running about without a collar. He has lots of tricks. Jump out, dog, and let me put you through some of your stunts.”
I was quite stiff from sitting so long, but I wanted to please Mr. Granton, so I sprang out to a bit of level ground and danced on my hind legs, rolled over, did dead dog, howled an operatic air with one paw on my chest, and wound up with double somersaults.
The Grantons laughed heartily, but Beanie was nearly suffocated with jealousy, and when I got back beside him and Louis, he bit me.
What a nip he got in return! Mrs. Granton screamed at his loud howl, and turning round, reproached Louis for not taking better care of him.
Louis pressed his gloved hand to his mouth and said in a choked voice, “Beg pardon, ma’am. I accidentally squeezed his ear with my arm.” Then he gave me a poke with his elbow and said, “No more of that, you young Spitfire.”
We went spinning toward Yonkers after we left Miss Pursell, and just after getting beyond it, had an adventure.
We were on a fine piece of road—what magnificent roads they are building, and so quickly too, outside most American cities—when we came to a big, powerfully ugly, red brick house, standing in its own grounds.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Granton, “Suppose we call on the Johnsons. It’s just about afternoon tea time.”