“And if he had three meals a day in the nursery, there’d not be much left of he in a week or less,” said Yakeman.
The children looked very surprised.
“We always have breakfast and dinner and tea,” said Artie, “and little dogs is hungry too.”
“Ah! yes,” said the smith; “but they couldn’t do with as much as that. And it’d never do neither for the puppy to eat all as you eats, Master Artie. Puppies isn’t little young gentlemen and ladies, and every creature has its own ways. He’ll be all right in the stable, never you fear, and Mr Mellor’ll see as he has all he should.”
But still the three faces did not clear. Leigh moved away as if he were going to the gate, flicking his boots with a little whip he had in his hand, to seem as if he did not care, though in reality he was very nearly crying. And Artie’s and Mary’s faces grew longer and longer.
“I don’t think I want to have him,” she said at last. “Zank you, Mr Yakeman, and zank you, papa; but him wouldn’t be nours—him’d be Mellor’s,” and then there came a little choke in Mary’s voice and a misty look in her eyes, and in a moment Artie’s pocket-handkerchief was out of his pocket and he was rubbing her cheeks with all his might.
“Don’t cry, Mary,” he said; “please, don’t cry. P’raps papa won’t—”
I am not quite sure what he was going to say. I am not sure that he knew himself. But whatever it was, he was interrupted. For before Mary’s tears had had time to begin their journey down her face, papa had picked her up in his arms and was busy comforting her. He could not bear to see her cry! Really, it was rather a wonder that she was not spoilt.
“My pet,” he said, “there is truly nothing to cry about. The puppy—what is it you call him, Fudge or Fuss—”
Mary could not help laughing a little. Fancy calling a puppy “Fudge.”