“Don’t be afraid, little girl, we won’t let the bad dog hurt you,” said the man named George. “Whose dog is he?”
“He—he belongs to a tin peddler,” said the little girl. “I was walking along the road just now and a boy, behind me, threw a stone at the dog. I guess the dog must have thought I threw it, for he chased after me, and I ran, for I was afraid he would bite me.”
“I guess he would have, if he had caught you,” remarked Tom. “But Dido knocked him out of the way.”
“Is Dido the name of your bear?” asked the girl.
“Yes,” answered George. “Dido is our bear.”
“It’s a pretty name,” said the little girl.
Dido, who was watching to see if the dog would get up and run at the little girl again, wondered what her name was.
“So she likes my name,” said Dido to himself. “I wonder if she likes me?”
The bad dog got up from the pile of leaves where Dido had knocked him. He growled, deep down in his throat, and Dido called: