Mr. Pottle won his doughnut. At three o'clock in the morning, with the mercury flirting with the freezing mark, he suddenly surged up from his pillow, made twitching motions with limbs and shoulders, and stalked out into the living room, where he finished the night on a hard-boiled army cot, used for guests.
As the days hurried by, he had to admit that the kennel man's predictions about the rapid growth of the animal seemed likely of fulfillment. In a very few weeks the offspring of Gloria Audacious Indomitable had attained prodigious proportions.
"But, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, eyeing the animal as it gnawed industriously at the golden oak legs of the player piano, "isn't he growing in a sort of funny way?"
"Funny way, Ambrose?"
"Yes, dear; funny way. Look at his legs."
She contemplated those members.
"Well?"
"They're kinda brief, aren't they, Blossom?"
"Naturally. He's no giraffe, Ambrose. Young thoroughbreds have small legs. Just like babies."