“We’ve lost Molly, sir,” announced Brandon dolefully.
The Scoutmaster sat down on one of the settees. As he did so a growl of protest came from the neighbourhood of his back. Turning, he raised one of the side-cushions. There, in a small recess formed between the two cushions, was the missing pup together with about nine-tenths of a shoe.
“Peter, old man!” sang out the Patrol Leader, “Molly’s been lost. We’ve found her making a meal of your shoe. Jolly careless of you to leave your gear all over the place.”
Craddock, from whom the news of his special pet’s disappearance had been hitherto kept, temporarily abandoned his sounding operations and came below.
“Naughty pup!” he said reprovingly.
Molly, no wise daunted, looked fearlessly up into her master’s face and struggled to give him a lick of devotion and affection.
“She wouldn’t be so brave a week ago,” remarked Brandon. “Don’t hit her, Peter.”
“No fear,” replied his chum. Then he critically examined the damaged footgear.
“Strikes me, old son, you’ve made a slight mistake,” he continued, addressing Brandon. “It’s not my shoe; it’s yours.”
The others roared at the Patrol Leader’s discomfiture, but Brandon took it in good part.