“You’d better hide him under your coat, or else they’ll make you ride in the baggage car with him,” cautioned Dick. And so Trevor boarded the train with a suspicious portliness, happily unobserved of the conductor, and, when they had yielded their tickets, drew the uncomplaining puppy from under his sweater.
“I’ll say one thing for it,” remarked Carl grudgingly, “it behaves mighty well, considering that it has just been torn from home and parents.” He held out a hand and the puppy went into spasms of delight over the evidence of friendship and licked the fingers deliriously. “Funny little beggar! How old is it, Trevor?”
“About ten weeks, I fancy.”
“What are you going to call him?” asked Stewart.
Trevor shook his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know yet. I shall wait until I find something appropriate.”
“Talking about names,” said Carl, “let’s find one for the boat. That fellow said she was the Lucy G., but that’s silly and doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ought to be something wintry,” suggested Stewart.
“Something like Blizzard, or Snowflake, or Ice King,” added Dick.
“It can’t be any of those,” objected Carl, “because there are heaps of Blizzards and the other things you said. How would The Polar Bear do?”