"But he seems so sorta long in proportion to his legs," said Mr. Pottle, critically. "He gets to look more like an overgrown caterpillar every day."
"You said yourself, Ambrose, that you know nothing about dogs," his wife reminded him. "The legs always develop last. Give Pershing a chance to get his growth; then you'll see."
Mr. Pottle shrugged, unconvinced.
"It's time to take Pershing out for his airing," Mrs. Pottle observed.
A fretwork of displeasure appeared on the normally bland brow of Mr. Pottle.
"Lotta good that does," he grunted. "Besides, I'm getting tired of leading him around on a string. He's so darn funny looking; the boys are beginning to kid me about him."
"Do you want me to go out," asked Mrs. Pottle, "with this heavy cold?"
"Oh, all right," said Mr. Pottle blackly.
"Now, Pershing precious, let mama put on your li'l blanket so you can go for a nice li'l walk with your papa."
"I'm not his papa," growled Mr. Pottle, rebelliously. "I'm no relation of his."