CHAPTER XI
NAPOLEON AND THE WASP
He tore open the telegram, exclaimed “Thank God,” clapped his hat on, slammed the door in my face, and was gone—all inside a minute.
What had happened, that he had forgotten me? I screamed with rage and disappointment, and scratched at the door, a thing I rarely do, for nothing makes human beings so annoyed as to have their doors marked by dogs.
The cook and the waitress came running from the kitchen. They were very good friends of mine, for I took care to treat them with the respect and consideration that every well-bred dog should show to servants. I always wiped my feet on muddy days, and I never went into the kitchen without an invitation.
“Bless the beast—what’s up with him?” exclaimed cook.
“Something, you may be sure,” said the waitress. “He’s got sense, that dog has. I guess the old man has gone and left him.”
I pulled cook’s cotton dress with my teeth. I led her to the telegram, and nosed it over to her. Alas! I could not read it. That bit of paper had driven master from his home.
Cook caught it up, and then gave a screech. “She’s gone and done it—doesn’t that jostle you!”