So out hobbled Johnny, all smiles. Crunch, crunch, crunch went his crutch down the gravel walk.
"Hepzebiah, you'll have to sit in the back with Marmaduke," commanded the owner of the little cart.
So the little girl climbed over the back of the seat and sat with Marmaduke and Wienerwurst. And they helped Johnny in carefully, and off they drove up the lane, enjoying the woods and the nice warm sun. Johnny enjoyed it ever so much, but not more than they. I guess the three children were quite as happy, for to make others happy brings the best sort of happiness.
At last they turned round and drove back.
They were just trotting past the Miller Farm when they heard a great growl.
Over the fields, with great leaps, a big dog was running. Now Jake Miller's dog, Prowler, was the worst dog in the neighbourhood. Often the three children had heard Father say "He ought to be shot."
And there he was—running straight towards them, and little Wienerwurst had jumped over the tailboard and out of the wagon, and was trotting alongside.
"Urrururur," growled Prowler. He had almost reached the gate. He was long and big, and really looked more like a savage animal than a dog. Pieces of chain hung from his neck and dragged alongside in the earth as he ran. He must have broken away from his kennel.
Through the gate he bounded, then stopped still and growled in suspicion.
"Out—out—out!" he seemed to be saying. He thought they had no right in front of his home, not even when they were driving on the road, which was free to all.