Jimmy Dory, not a bit abashed, continued to talk to me. “This fox-terrier is a regular mischief anyway, and tells awful lies, but usually there is a little grain of truth wrapped up in his lies. We got the news the day after. Father's cousin—Angora Girl, they call her—heard faint cat screams from your house one day last week. She told the fox-terrier, and the fox-terrier asked your big dog Mona what had happened. Mona said it was none of his business—to attend to his own yard, and she would attend to hers. However, this fox-terrier, Smarty, wasn't to be put down that way; so the next time Mona's back was turned, he cornered the little dog. What do you call her?”
“Dolly,” I said.
“Yes, Dolly. He told Dolly that he would chew her up and spit her out if she—”
At this point my sister Serena interrupted him again. “Father,” she mewed piteously, “must I be forced to listen to this back-yard vulgarity?”
“No, you shall not,” said my father, and he motioned with his paw for Jimmy Dory to stop. Jimmy had to, and then my father motioned for Serena to proceed with the news they had heard.
“It seems,” began Serena grandly, “that your spaniel has been endowed with rather a pusillanimous disposition.”
I tried not to laugh, for Jimmy Dory was saying, “Oh glory!” in my ear.
“Do you mean that she is a coward?” I asked.
“Certainly that is the signification of my definition.”
“She is afraid of her own shadow,” I said.