"Distinguished—a manner, eh?" she snapped at one of her cronies, an antiquated dowager who had remarked on Bab's savoir-faire. "Well, why shouldn't she have manner? Wasn't she born a Beeston?"
The dowager agreed hastily. Furthest from her intention was the wish to combat Vira Beeston in anything. It had been tried; but never had the result been fortunate.
However, David before long came to Bab's rescue. Having observed the way his Aunt Vira was promenading Bab before these ancient cronies of hers, he found occasion to protest vigorously.
"Why not hire a hall?" he suggested. "Why not hire a band, too; and get a ballyhoo to bark for your show?" Propped up on one crutch, with the other he began to gesticulate derisively. "Here y' are now, the only living Beeston heiress in captivity! Have a look, have a look!"
Miss Elvira did her best to scowl.
"David!" she protested.
"That's all right!" he retorted. "How would you like it yourself?" His aunt hadn't thought of that! "Think how absurd it is too!" he added. "Why, look at Bab, even she's laughing at you!"
After that when there were callers Bab found herself less frequently put to the ordeal of what David irreverently termed prancing. Nor were the callers themselves, even the softest, the most insinuating, allowed to satisfy in her their thinly veiled craving for the romantic. David, too, saw to that. At his heels usually was a small, sad-faced, rowdy-looking Irish terrier, Barney by name. "Sing, Barney!" David would say, pointing a finger at him; and Barney, lifting his head to heaven, would sing, "Ow! Ow,! Ow-wow!" One day when a visiting dowager had made to Bab the brilliantly intelligent remark: "How glad you must be they found you!" David secretly pointed a finger at Barney. Instantly Barney responded.
"Ow! Ow! Ow-wow!" he sang. "Ow! Ow-wow!"