“It is Jumble,” said the man. “He’s called Jumble,” he explained to William, “because he is a jumble. He’s all sorts of a dog, you know. This is Ninette, my daughter, and my name is Jarrow, and we’ve taken Lavender Cottage for two months. We’re roving vagabonds. We never stay anywhere longer than two months. So now you know all about us. Jumble seems to have adopted you. Ninette, my dear, you are completely ousted from Jumble’s heart. This gentleman reigns supreme.”
“I didn’t steal him,” said William indignantly. “He just came. He began following me. I didn’t want him to—not jus’ at first anyway, not much anyway. I suppose,” a dreadful fear came to his heart, “I suppose you want him back?”
“You can keep him for a bit if you want him, can’t he Daddy? Daddy’s going to buy me a Pom—a dear little white Pom. When we lost Jumble, I thought I’d rather have a Pom. Jumble’s so rough and he’s not really a good dog. I mean he’s no pedigree.”
“Then can I keep him jus’ for a bit?” said William, his voice husky with eagerness.
“Oh, yes. I’d much rather have a quieter sort of dog. Would you like to come and see our cottage? It’s just over here.”
William, slightly bewildered but greatly relieved, set off with her. Mr. Jarrow followed slowly behind. It appeared that Miss Ninette Jarrow was rather a wonderful person. She was eleven years old. She had visited every capital in Europe, seen the best art and heard the best music in each. She had been to every play then on in London. She knew all the newest dances.
“Do you like Paris?” she asked William as they went towards Lavender Cottage.
“Never been there,” said William stolidly, glancing round surreptitiously to see that Jumble was following.
She shook her dark curly head from side to side—a little trick she had.
“You funny boy. Mais vous parlez Français, n’est-ce pas?”