“You’re somewhat muddy,” he remarked; and continued to explore his fly-book for new combinations.
Westmore, very weary, started for the house; Garry walked across to the kennel gate, let himself in among a dozen segregated and very demonstrative English setters, walked along the tree-bordered alley behind the garage, and, shutting out the affectionate but quarantined dogs, entered the kennels.
His mother, in smock and apron, and wearing rubber gloves, was seated on the edge of a straw-littered bunk, a bottle in one hand, a medicine-dropper in the other. Her four-footed patient, swathed in blankets, lay on the straw beside her.
“Well, dear,” she said, looking up at her son, “where have you been all night, and most of to-day?”
“I’ll tell you about it later, mother. There’s something else I want to ask you——” He fell silent, watching her measure out fourteen drops of Grover’s Specific for distemper.
“I’m listening, Garry,” she said, bending over the sick pup and gently forcing open his feverish jaws. Then she dropped her medicine far back on his tongue; the pup gulped, sneezed, looked at her out of dull eyes and feebly wagged his tail.
“I’m going to pull him through, Garry,” she said. “The other pups are doing well, too. But your sister and I were up with them all night. I only hope and pray that the distemper doesn’t spread.”
She looked up at her son:
“Well, dear, what is it you have to ask me?”