"One plunk, clippa da dog."
"Yes, but Garibaldi," said McNab gently, "that wasn't our dog."
"Shall we run for it?" said Waters, as they went hurriedly up the block.
"Wait until Garibaldi gives chase—we must be dignified," said McNab, with an eye to the rear.
"Dagos have no sense of humor. Here he comes with a razor—scud for it!"
They dashed madly for the corner, doubled a couple of times, joined by the rejuvenated friendly poodle, and suddenly, wheeling around a corner, ran straight into the dean, who as fate would have it, was accompanied by the very dignified citizen who had been the first victim of their old clothes act and upon whom the frantic poodle, with canine expressions of relief and delight, immediately cast himself.
"Buck," said McNab, half an hour later, as they went limply back, "Napoleon would have whipped the British to an omelet at Waterloo if he'd known about that sunken road."
"We are but mortals."
"How the deuce were we to know the pup belonged to Professor Borgle, the eminent rootitologist?"
"Well, we paid the dago, didn't we?"