We were sitting on the verandah of the Sopley’s summer cottage.
“How lovely it is here,” I said to my host and hostess, “and how still.”
It was at this moment that Weejee, the pet dog, took a sharp nip at the end of my tennis trousers.
“Weejee!!” exclaimed his mistress with great emphasis, “BAD dog! how dare you, sir! BAD dog!”
“I hope he hasn’t hurt you,” said my host.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I answered cheerfully. “He hardly scratched me.”
“You know I don’t think he means anything by it,” said Mrs. Sopley.
“Oh, I’m SURE he doesn’t,” I answered.
Weejee was coming nearer to me again as I spoke.
“WEEJEE!!” cried my hostess, “naughty dog, bad!”