This last remark was due to the animal's earnest but only partially successful effort to fasten its teeth in Mr. Pottle's calf. Pershing gave out a sharp, disappointed yelp.
A white, shrouded figure appeared at the window.
"Burglar, go away," it said, shrilly, "or I'll sic my savage St. Bernard on you."
"He's already sicced, Blottom," said a doleful voice. "It's me, Blottom. Your Ambrose."
"Why, Ambrose! How queer your voice sounds! Why don't you come in."
"Pershing won't let me," cried Mr. Pottle. "Call him in."
"He won't come," she wailed, "and I'm afraid of him at night like this."
"Coax him in."
"He won't coax."
"Bribe him with food."