In a moment they were both hard at work. Snippity, snip, clip, clip, went the two pairs of scissors. Bob's beautiful long black hair, the pride of his master's heart and the means of securing a prize at the last dog-show, lay in a heap on the grass.
"That's nice," said Janet, surveying the result with satisfaction. "He must feel lovely and cool. Now let's do the other side."
But that was not so easy. Bob still refused to stir. They pulled and punched and pushed, but he would not turn over.
"Well, we'll just have to leave it an' do it 'nother time," said Janet at last, with a parting clip at ear and tail. "Let's go down an' play in the brook."
And flinging the scissors on the grass, these two young persons deserted the scene of their labors, and were soon building a fine dam across the brook in the pasture. There they remained until the sound of the bell on the carriage house, rung to summon to dinner the men at work in the distant fields, warned them that it was twelve o'clock and almost time to go in themselves.
Edith and Neal plodded slowly homeward. It was very warm, for though it was not sunny in the woods, the trees shut off the air. They turned in from the lane and walked up the avenue, Robin's hoofs falling regularly on the gravel with a hot, thumping sound.
"Jiminy, this is a scorcher!" said Neal, wiping his forehead. "Here comes Bob. He doesn't seem to mind the weather. No, it isn't Bob, either. What dog is it? Great Scott, Edith, it is Bob! What has happened to him?"
He dropped the reins, and Robin trudged off alone to his stall.
"Why, Neal, I never saw such a sight!" cried Edith.