After all, life could never be absolutely black, as long as it held Jumble.
Jumble darted ecstatically from the kitchen regions, his mouth covered with gravy, dropping a half-picked bone on the hall carpet as he came.
“William, you can’t take a dog to a Band of Hope meeting.”
“Why not?” said William, indignantly. “I don’t see why not. Dogs don’t drink beer, do they? They’ve as much right at a Band of Hope meeting as I have, haven’t they? There seems jus’ nothin’ anyone can do.”
“Well, I’m sure it wouldn’t be allowed. No one takes dogs to meetings.”
She held Jumble firmly by the collar, and William set off reluctantly down the drive.
“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” she called cheerfully.
He turned back and looked at her.
“It’s a wonder I’m not dead,” he said bitterly, “the things I have to do!”
He walked slowly—a dejected, dismal figure. At the gate he stopped and glanced cautiously up and down the road. There were three more figures coming down the road, with short intervals between them. They were Henry, Douglas and Ginger.