“Do be careful, Charles,” said his wife.
Sopley picked Weejee up by the collar and carried him to the edge of the water—it was about six inches deep,—and threw him in,—with much the same force as, let us say, a pen is thrown into ink or a brush dipped into a pot of varnish.
“That’s enough; that’s quite enough, Charles,” exclaimed Mrs. Sopley. “I think he’d better not swim. The water in the evening is always a little cold. Good dog, good doggie, good Weejee!”
Meantime “good Weejee” had come out of the water and was moving again towards me.
“He goes straight to you,” said my hostess. “I think he must have taken a fancy to you.”
He had.
To prove it, Weejee gave himself a rotary whirl like a twirled mop.
“Oh, I’m SO sorry,” said Mrs. Sopley. “I am. He’s wetted you. Weejee, lie down, down, sir, good dog, bad dog, lie down!”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve another white suit in my valise.”
“But you must be wet through,” said Mrs. Sopley. “Perhaps we’d better go in. It’s getting late, anyway, isn’t it?” And then she added to her husband, “I don’t think Weejee ought to sit out here now that he’s wet.”