“Too much monkey, eh, Billie?” I said.
She just burst into dog talk. “I’m nearly crazy, Dicky-Dick. I don’t know what I’ll do. Every minute that thing persecutes me. She sleeps in my box with me and kicks me to death. She is always creeping up to me and putting her arm round me, and it tickles me—and I’m tired of giving her rides. I’m not a pony. I’m a dog. I hate any one to love me so hard. I wish she’d hate me.”
“She’s cold, Billie, and she is lonely.”
“She’s got a little coat. Mrs. Martin made her one. She won’t keep it on. She tries to put it on me.”
By this time I was sitting on a low branch just above Billie’s head. “Be patient, dear dog friend. In amusing the monkey, you are helping our Missie.”
“And she’s so bad,” said Billie, “she’s stolen all the cake for to-night’s knitting party. She got into the sideboard after lunch and Missie doesn’t know it, and I caught her yesterday in the basement fussing with the box that the electric light man goes to. I don’t believe any of
the lights will go on to-night. The front door bell hasn’t rung all day, and no one knows but me that it’s the monkey that put it out of order.”
“It’s too bad,” I said, “and beside all this wickedness on her part, she’s keeping me a prisoner in the bird-room. I managed to fly out this morning when our Mary had the door open, but I don’t know when I’ll get back. I just had to come out to get news of Squirrie.”
Billie, while listening to me, was staring gloomily about the shrubbery. Suddenly she got up and nosed something lying on the ground. “What’s this, Dicky-Dick?” she asked.
“Betsy, a rag doll belonging to Beatrice.”