“There’s that dog, after all. I didn’t mean he should come.”
“Send him home, then,” suggested the captain. “Why don’t you send him home, Kirke?”
“Because he wouldn’t go,” answered the lad, in laughing confusion. “He wouldn’t go, and I should only hurt his feelings for nothing.”
The ruddy-faced captain suppressed a smile, and listened patiently, while Kirke proceeded to sing the praises of the graceful white terrier, who would not obey his master.
“He loves me tremendously; he can’t bear to stay away from me: there’s the trouble.”
And in truth a more affectionate dog than little Shot never lived. He was a general favorite, which certainly could not have been said of Zip, Donald’s Mexican cur that had died the preceding autumn.
As the phaeton whirled along, Shot darted first to one side of the road and then to the other, to chase squirrels and gophers into their holes, but without once losing sight of his beloved owner.
“I suppose, Kirke, you’re very fond of the little rascal,” observed the captain, as they drew near the end of their drive.
“You’d better believe I am, Captain Bradstreet. I wouldn’t part with him for a farm.”
“The lad’s in sober earnest,” thought the gentleman, peering from beneath his white eyebrows at Kirke’s animated face. “I never knew a boy more devoted to his friends.”