“Just my dog,” said Jeanne, holding him up to view. “My very good friend Plumdum.”
“Funny name,” said Florence. “How do you spell it?”
“Oh, that,” Jeanne giggled, “I didn’t give him the name. It was a redcap in a railroad station who gave it to him, though I guess he didn’t mean to. He’s the one who told me how to spell it too. But I guess he didn’t really know how, not really—”
“Jeanne,” Florence exploded, “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense!”
“I’m sorry,” Jeanne apologized, “I’ll tell you how it was. I had fallen in love with this dog; saw him in a pet store window. He—he sort of winked at me, so I just went in and bought him.”
“Of course,” Florence agreed.
“And then,” Jeanne heaved a sigh, “he didn’t have any name. Well I went into the railway station and the redcap took the beast and tried to steer him through the crowd. He kept dodging between people and under their feet. At last the redcap got disgusted and said, ‘Miss, that thar dorg is plumdum!’
“‘Is he?’ I asked. I was all excited. I thought that was his real name. Guess I was dumb. But I said, ‘How do you spell it?’ He said, ‘What Miss?’ I said, ‘Plumdum.’ He said, ‘Miss, I ain’t never been no spellin’ champeen, but near as I can figger it’s P-l-u-m-d-u-m.’”
“He was trying to tell you your dog was plumb dumb,” Florence laughed.
“Yes, to be sure,” Jeanne answered. “All the same, that’s his name!”