“Oh, I hoped he had turned up by this time. No, we haven’t seen a sign of him, Molly; but we’ve found this.”
Here Paul held up a dog’s collar.
“Shot’s collar!” cried Molly.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve found that and haven’t found the dog?” exclaimed Kirke, rushing down the steps of the veranda, flourishing in one hand a gripsack, in the other a small bunch of bananas. “Where did you find it, Paul? And when?”
“Last night, Kirke, in the hedge of the olive-orchard.”
“In the hedge?”
“Yes, tucked under it, ’way out of sight.”
“Then somebody hid it there—Sing Wung! I’ll bet ’twas Sing Wung!” muttered Kirke, as he mounted the wagon. “He killed Shot. Got mad with him and killed him, and then saved his collar. He thought he could get money for it.”
“Has somebody killed Shot?” piped half-dressed Weezy, screening herself from view behind her sister. “Oh, dear, dear! Poor little Shot!”
“Deah, deah, poo’ ’ittle S’ot!” echoed Don, running to the casement in his ruffled white night-dress, and standing there quite unabashed.