“You must wait awhile, Snip,” said Harry, “for your supper. I guess you’re a pretty hungry little dog, aren’t you?”
“I should think he would be,” said Chub, “the way he’s been—say, what’s that on his neck?”
It proved to be a piece of twisted paper tied about the middle and attached to Snip’s collar.
“Hold him still,” said Chub, “and I’ll get it off.”
The others had gathered around and, in spite of Snip’s struggles—he laboring under the delusion that Chub wanted to play with him—the paper was untied and unfolded amid the breathless interest of the group.
“It’s ‘W. N.’ again!” cried Chub. “Poetry, too! Listen, fellows!
“A man with his clothes on the line
With friends is unable to dine;
So he shivers and frets
And sends his regrets
By messenger No. K 9.”
“But—but how did he manage to get hold of Snip?” marveled Dick. They all talked at once for a minute and great excitement reigned at Camp Torohadik. Finally Harry’s voice triumphed above the babel.
“I think it’s perfectly wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Snip will never go near strangers. It just shows that he must be a beautiful character!”