Niger was fagged out. He lay panting and rolling his bright eyes from one to another of the little group. He had evidently run far to get home.
“This is one of the most interesting dog cases I have ever heard of,” said Mrs. Martin. “Just examine that collar under his black curls, and see if there is a name on it.”
Mr. Martin held the lantern up so our Mary could see. “The collar is very handsome,” she said, “studded with some red stones—‘Mrs. Ringworth, Hillcrest,’ is on it.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. “Third Cousin Annie!”
Everybody laughed at her comical tone. “Now we’ll have some fun getting the dog away from her,” said Mrs. Martin. “Annie never was known to give up anything that ever belonged to her.”
“And the amazing thing about his talking would appeal to her,” said Mr. Martin gloomily; “she does love to be singular.”
“Why, I remember having her tell me about this dog,” our Missie went on. “Just a year ago I met her downtown and she told me she had just bought a young dog from a man in the street and she had become so fond of him that she was going to take him to California with her—and I told her we had just had a puppy stolen from us. Fancy Niger being both dogs,” and she began to laugh so heartily that her husband and daughter and the maids joined her, and Niger, feeling that he ought to do something,
rumbled out, “Jus’ a crumb, jus’ a crumb—crumb—crumb!”
“Bless him, he’s hungry,” said Mr. Martin, and he turned to his wife. “Couldn’t Hester make us some of her nice coffee—I declare I’m thirsty and hungry myself, after all that prancing about our dusty cellar.”
Mrs. Martin pretended to be vexed, and drew herself up proudly. “My cellar is as clean as any housekeeper’s in this neighborhood.”