"I saw 'em in a window, grampa,—a great big druggist's window,—an' I went in an' said to the man, 'Can you trust me for 'em? I'll pay you, sure pop, if you'll gimme time. I'm goin' to be a good girl now, an' never tell no more lies nor steal, nor do anythin' bad,' but he jus' said ever so grumpy, 'This is a cast down, no credit system store,' but I wasn't cas' down, an' I said, 'S'pose you was a lame man, an' a bad little girl burnt up your crutches, how would you feel? 'Then he looked kind o' solemn, an' said, 'Whose crutches was burnt up?' An' I said, 'Mr. Hobart Dillson's crutches,' an' he said, 'What girl burnt 'em?' I said, 'A little girl that don't know where to look.' Then he asked what you said when I burnt your crutches, an' I said you didn't say much, you jus' cussed. Then he turned his face round to the bottles, an' when he looked out it was red, an' he was shakin' all over like as if he's been cryin', an' he jus' pointed to the crutches an' said, 'Take 'em, an' welcome.'"
Dillson's head dropped on his breast. This girl had evidently gone to Peter Jerret's store,—Peter Jerret who had owed him a grudge ever since the day he went in and denounced him before a store full of customers for overcharging him for prescriptions. Peter had actually dared to pity him—Hobart Dillson, and so had let the girl have the crutches, not caring whether he ever got paid or not. Well, he hadn't thought Peter would ever pity him, and, drawing his crutches toward him, Dillson cautiously lifted himself, and tried his weight upon them.
Yes, he could walk, he would go to bed, and think over Peter's conduct. It affected him, but he must not look soft. "Open my door," he said to 'Tilda Jane.
While she flew to obey his command, the old man heard a low whine near him, and remembered Poacher. The dog had recognised the girl's voice, and would soon make himself known. He might as well have the credit of his discovery. If she had come home sulky he would have allowed her to find the dog for herself, but she was meek and biddable, and she had also secretly pleased him by addressing him as "grampa," in tones of such respect and affection. She had improved decidedly, and he exclaimed, peremptorily, "Here, you!"
'Tilda Jane ran out from the bedroom, where she was turning down the icy sheets in the bed so that the chill might be taken from them.
"Open this door," ordered the old man.
With a wondering air 'Tilda Jane threw back the cellar door. Then she gave a joyful scream.
There, standing on the top step, cold and shivering, half famished, but alive and well, was her beloved Poacher.
She tried to catch him around the neck, but he flew past her into the kitchen, came back like a shot, and, dashing up her back, licked her neck, sprang into the air, and again racing round and round the room, brought on what she herself would call a "combobberation."
The old man was so near, that Poacher, in his wild gyrations to and fro, swept one of his crutches from him. 'Tilda Jane, even in the midst of her astonished and ecstatic glee, perceived this, and stooped down to recover the lost article, but she could not lay her hand on it, for the excited dog, with his head in the air and his tongue hanging out, made repeated dashes at her, beside her, behind her,—he was everywhere that she was. And Gippie was after him, for, snorting with rage and mortification at the resuscitation of his rival, he had bounded from under the stove, and, with his maimed tail wagging excitedly in the air, was biting, snapping, growling at Poacher's heels, nipping him fiercely, if by chance he paused a second to rest.