She shrugged her shoulders, said something in French that I did not catch, and went across the street with him.
I ran first, and looked under the steps. “Hello! Gringo, old boy—a thousand welcomes to Riverside Drive.”
The old dog’s pleasure was lovely to see. He came out, wagged his short tail, even licked me. “I feel like a cat in a strange garret up here,” he growled. “It’s fine to meet a friend. How have you been? Why didn’t you call?”
“I was planning to come to-morrow,” I said. “I’ve been in attendance on the best master a dog ever had. He keeps me with him all the time.”
“He’s no better than mine,” said Gringo shortly.
“I’m dying to see your master,” I replied. “Come in to this house. This is a place where dogs are welcome.”
Gringo was just preparing to follow me up the steps, when Sir Walter Scott stood before us—his tail rigid with disapproval.
“Good land!” muttered Gringo in my ear, “another one of these fool ’ristocrats. Mister’s gone batty on the subject of swells. I wish he’d stayed on the Bowery.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Walter Scott in his mellifluous voice. “I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“This dog is a friend of mine, Scott,” I said bluntly, “and I believe I have the entrée of your house. In insulting him, you insult me.”