An unwonted frown creased Doggie’s brow, for several problems disturbed him. The morning sun disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains, and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed.
Then, his thoughts ran on to his cousin, Oliver Manningtree, who had just returned from the South Sea. It was Oliver, the strong and masculine, who had given him the name of Doggie years before, to his infinite disgust. And now every one in Durdlebury seemed to have gone crazy over the fellow. Doggie’s uncle and aunt had hung on his lips while Oliver had boasted unblushingly of his adventures. Even the fair cousin Peggy, with whom Doggie was mildly in love, had listened open-eyed and open-mouthed to Oliver’s tales of shipwreck in distant seas.
Doggie had reached this point in his reflections when, to his horror, he heard a familiar voice outside the door.
“All right,” it said. “Don’t worry, Peddle. I’ll show myself in.”
The door burst open, and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came into the room.
“Hello, Doggie!” he cried boisterously. “Thought I’d look you up. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” said Doggie. “Do sit down.”
But Oliver walked about and looked at things.
“I like your water colors,” he said. “Did you collect them yourself!”
“Yes.”