“I do,” said Tom. “You’d just told the man you got him at Barrington; see? Barry—Barrington.”
“I guess that was it. Mr. Barry, of Barrington. Well, that isn’t such a bad name.”
“It’s easy to say,” responded Bob. “Here, Barry.”
But the terrier only wagged his tail in a friendly way.
“He’ll learn his name quick enough,” said Dan. “I wonder, though, what his real name is.”
“Let’s see if we can find out,” suggested Bob. “We’ll call him all the names we can think of and see if he answers to any of them.”
So they started in, and the terrier, evidently at a loss to know what it all meant, laid himself down in the sunlight and observed them with puzzled eyes. They tried all the usual names they could think of, and then they started on unusual ones. But when Tom got to Launcelot, Dan interfered.
“Look here, that will do for you,” he said. “I’m not going to have my dog called any such names as that. You’ll be calling him Reginald next, I suppose!”
“What name was that that fellow got off?” questioned Nelson. “Forest Lad, was it?”