“Good-bye, you little mutt, you,” said he. “If my uncle wasn’t a flinty-hearted old thing, we’d take you along.”
Then Bennie climbed over into the car, and they were off for Mount Jefferson. They ran north out of Bend, and then turned west, toward the distant mountains. In the early morning light, clear as a bell, they could see the snow-clad peaks rising against the sky, all the way from the Three Sisters in front of them to Mount Hood, a hundred miles to the north. More than fifty miles away, northwestward, rose the sharp, glittering white pyramid of Mount Jefferson, their objective. It was their first sight of it, and the doctor slowed down the car so they could have a good look.
And as he did so, they heard a little yip beside the car—and there was the pup, his tongue hanging out, his chest heaving, but his eyes fixed on Bennie in triumph!
“Oh, Uncle Billy, the poor little mutt!” Bennie cried. “Some speed, I’ll say. He’s going to follow us till he runs his head off. Can’t I take him in?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, and the doctor had no time to reply, before the pup, with one spring, landed in Bennie’s lap.
“Looks as if you had taken him in,” the doctor grinned. “Well, let him stay now. But you’ll have to feed him out of your own rations. We can’t pack food for a dog.”
The dog, with wiggles of his tail and body that expressed his joy as plainly as any words could, snuggled down in Bennie’s lap and tried to lick him.
“What are you going to name him?” Dumplin’ called out from the other car.
“I guess his name is Mutt,” Bennie laughed.
“Seeing’s how we are going to Jefferson, better call him Jeff,” Dumplin’ retorted.