“Funny thing about that dog,” said Sopley, “the way he KNOWS people. It’s a sort of instinct. He knew right away that you were a stranger,—now, yesterday, when the butcher came, there was a new driver on the cart and Weejee knew it right away,—grabbed the man by the leg at once,—wouldn’t let go. I called out to the man that it was all right or he might have done Weejee some harm.”
At this moment Weejee took the second nip at my other trouser leg. There was a short GUR-R-R and a slight mix-up.
“Weejee! Weejee!” called Mrs. Sopley. “How DARE you, sir! You’re just a BAD dog!! Go and lie down, sir. I’m so sorry. I think, you know, it’s your white trousers. For some reason Weejee simply HATES white trousers. I do hope he hasn’t torn them.”
“Oh, no,” I said; “it’s nothing only a slight tear.”
“Here, Weege, Weege,” said Sopley, anxious to make a diversion and picking up a little chip of wood,—“chase it, fetch it out!” and he made the motions of throwing it into the lake.
“Don’t throw it too far, Charles,” said his wife. “He doesn’t swim awfully well,” she continued, turning to me, “and I’m always afraid he might get out of his depth. Last week he was ever so nearly drowned. Mr. Van Toy was in swimming, and he had on a dark blue suit (dark blue seems simply to infuriate Weejee) and Weejee just dashed in after him. He don’t MEAN anything, you know, it was only the SUIT made him angry,—he really likes Mr. Van Toy,—but just for a minute we were quite alarmed. If Mr. Van Toy hadn’t carried Weejee in I think he might have been drowned.
“By jove!” I said in a tone to indicate how appalled I was.
“Let me throw the stick, Charles,” continued Mrs. Sopley. “Now, Weejee, look Weejee—here, good dog—look! look now (sometimes Weejee simply won’t do what one wants), here, Weejee; now, good dog!”
Weejee had his tail sideways between his legs and was moving towards me again.
“Hold on,” said Sopley in a stern tone, “let me throw him in.”