How did he know her name, she wondered, yet answered more bravely than she felt. “Yes, sir.” She thought it best to be as polite as possible. “I’m alone now, but the boys are expected every minute.” She would say “boys” even if Clarence didn’t come; it sounded more protecting.
“You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?”
“You’re George Rideout Smith’s kid, ain’t you?”
“Yes; but I’m afraid my papa’s dead, he’s been gone so long.” How she hated that word “kid.”
“Well, he ain’t dead; he’s alive and bully, with a wad that bulges. I’m going to take you to him.”
“Right—now—are you?” The arm that was around Bouncer tightened, and she thought her “heart would fly right up into her throat.”
“Yes, right now.” He stepped nearer, and Bouncer growled and bristled.
The man swore and looked for a cudgel.
“Oh, please, mister, sir, don’t hurt Bouncer. I’d rather you’d hit me. He’s the best dog ever lived, and I won’t let you hurt him.” Her courage grew as she spoke, and he stopped his search and glanced her way. She looked up, bravely pleading for the dog she hugged harder.