"Well, whose one man dog is he?"
Mrs. Pottle began to sniffle audibly.
"I d-don't believe you'd c-care if I got up and c-caught my d-death of c-cold," she said. "You know how easily I c-chill, too. But I c-can't leave that poor motherless little fellow cry his heart out in that big, dark, lonely kitchen. I'll just have to get up and——"
She stirred around as if she really intended to. The chivalrous Mr. Pottle heaved up from his pillow like an irate grampus from the depths of a tank.
"I'll go," he grumbled, fumbling around with goose-fleshed limbs for his chilly slippers. "Shall I tell him about Little Red Riding Hood or Goody Two Shoes?"
"Ambrose, if you speak roughly to Pershing, I shall never forgive you. And he won't either. No. Bring him in here."
"Here?" His tone was aghast; barbers are aseptic souls.
"Yes, of course."
"In bed?"
"Certainly."