"Oh, Blossom!"
"We can't leave him in the cold, can we?"
"But, Blossom, suppose he's—suppose he has——"
The hiatus was expressive.
"He hasn't." Her voice was one of indignant denial. "Pedigreed dogs don't. Why, the kennels were immaculate."
"Humph," said Mr. Pottle dubiously. He strode into the kitchen and returned with Pershing in his arms; he plumped the small, bushy, whining animal in bed beside his wife.
"I suppose, Mrs. Pottle," he said, "that you are prepared to take the consequences."
She stroked the squirming thing, which emitted small, protesting bleats.
"Don't you mind the nassy man, sweetie-pie," she cooed. "Casting 'spersions on poor li'l lonesome doggie." Then, to her husband, "Ambrose, how can you suggest such a thing? Don't stand there in the cold."
"Nevertheless," said Mr. Pottle, oracularly, as he prepared to seek slumber at a point as remote as possible in the bed from Pershing, "I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut that I'm right."