“And I have whistled,” said Mr. Maclin, “but he doesn’t answer.”
“I can’t believe that he ran away,” said Miss Clementina; “he was so fond of us.”
“And I’m sure he wasn’t stolen,” said Mr. Maclin. “He wasn’t valuable enough to steal.”
“I thought,” said Miss Clementina, “that I was glad to have him leave. He certainly did mess the place up terribly. But I miss him so, I’d be downright glad to have him come back and dig a hole in the geranium bed.”
“I’ve a new doormat waiting for him,” said Mr. Maclin. “Miss Clementina, where do you suppose he is?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Clementina. “I only wish I did. Why, there’s a little brown dog now. Perhaps——Here, dog, dog!”
Mr. Maclin’s whistle supplemented Miss Clementina’s call, but the brown dog took no heed.
“It’s some one else’s dog,” said Miss Clementina. “Don’t you see, he has on a collar?”
But Mr. Maclin had seen something else—a small, brass tag attached to the dog’s collar.
“Miss Clementina,” said he, “do you suppose the little brown dog’s tax was paid?”