“Your friends—why, you are the heroine of the city—confound it, what is that dog doing?”
Berty’s mongrel friend, taking advantage of Tom’s absorbing interest in his companion, had lain down on the grass behind him and had chewed a piece out of his coat.
“Look at it—the rascal,” exclaimed Tom, twisting round his blue serge garment—“a clean bite. What kind of a dog is this? Get out, you brute.”
“Don’t scold him,” said Berty, holding out a hand to the culprit. “He doesn’t know any better. He is young and cutting teeth.”
“Well, I wish he’d cut them on some other man—look at that coat. It’s ruined.”
“Can’t you get it mended?”
“Who would do it for me?”
“Send it to your tailor.”
“It’s too shabby—I just keep it for boating.”
“Ask your mother or Selina.”