Patricia | Page 4

darted forward, with very much the same shriek of horrified dismay as Mrs. Miller had uttered not long since.
Mounted on a chair, his feet firmly planted on the kitchen-table was a small black dog, just finishing the contents of a large glass dish standing at the edge of the table.
"It's my custard," Miss Susan wailed, "and the minister coming to supper!"
The "very nice dog" turned round, licking his chops contentedly. It almost seemed as if he winked at Patricia.
The next instant, skilfully dodging Miss Susan, he had retired to the side yard, to finish licking his chops. Truly, it was a red-letter day for him. He wagged affably at the eloquent Miss Susan; surely he had paid her the highest compliment in his power.
"Oh, I am so sorry," Patricia declared. "He must have been very hungry--I couldn't have given him nearly enough breakfast." Then she brightened. "After all, Miss Susan, I don't suppose he's ever had custard before; and I know Dr. Vail has--lots of times."
Which view of the case did not in the least appeal to the indignant maker of the custard.
Seeing which, Patricia concluded that the best thing to do was to take her charge away as quickly as possible. And in the confusion milk and cookies were quite forgotten.
"Really, you know," Patricia admonished, once they were outside the gate, "you're not behaving at all well! Tearing table-cloths, chasing cats, and eating up custards aren't at all good dog manners."
The culprit, quick to detect the disapproval in Patricia's voice, thought it time to limp again.
"Is your paw very bad?" Patricia asked.
The dog assured her that it was.
"I don't know what we're going to do next," Patricia told him. And once back on the main road, she came to a standstill. She couldn't take her protégé home; even less could she desert him. She sat down by the roadside to consider the matter--to consider various other matters, as well. Even with Patricias there comes the moment of reckoning.
Aunt Julia had said that the next time she evaded sewing-lesson she must go to bed at five o'clock. Patricia stretched out her tired little legs; at the present moment that particular form of punishment did not appear very unendurable. Just now, however, it seemed doubtful if she would be at home by five o'clock.
Also, Daddy had said that the next time she broke bounds in this way he should be obliged to punish her. Patricia fanned herself with a decidedly dingy pocket-handkerchief; she wished Daddy had said--how.
"I'm not saying you're not a very nice dog," Patricia patted her companion, curled up on the folds of her short skirts; "still, if I hadn't met you this morning--"
The dog blinked sleepily, licking her hand. Perhaps he was thinking of a poor, forlorn little animal who had until that morning been hunted and driven, half starved, never caressed.
"I wonder," Patricia said, anxiously, "if Mr. Carr wouldn't like you? We'll go see, at any rate."
Up the hill they trudged, to where, in his little cabin, lived old Carr, the cobbler.
He was at his bench as usual, and he paused, needle in air, at sight of his visitors.
Patricia was growing desperate; she went straight to the heart of her errand.
She and Carr were great friends, and the latter was immensely interested. Over his spectacles he surveyed the pair. Patricia's gray eyes had lost their confidence; they were almost as unconsciously pathetic as the dog's brown ones.
"Well," Carr said, slowly, "there's no denying a dog's company; and since old Sampson died--"
Patricia beamed. "Then you will take him? And you won't mind if he's rather--lively? You see, he's so very young. Maybe, I'd better tell you everything." And sitting down on one end of the workbench, Patricia made full confession of her charge's misdoings. "But I think he's sorry," she ended, hopefully.
"Sure, Miss," Carr assented; "especially as to the custard--that there wasn't more. What's his name, Miss?"
"I don't know. I've called him just Dog."
"I reckon he won't care what he's called, so long as you don't call him too late for dinner," Carr remarked. "How about Custard? It'd keep his sin afore him." He took a piece of rope from the floor. "I'd best tie him for a bit at first."
It was half-past four when Patricia reached home. Sarah was upstairs and Aunt Julia busy with callers.
Making a hasty raid on the pantry, Patricia slipped quietly up the back way to her own room. Aunt Julia had said it must be bed; and there was no particular use in waiting to be sent.
She was just getting into bed, after a hurried bath, when Miss Kirby, having learned from certain unmistakable evidence that Patricia had returned, came upstairs.
"Patricia!" she exclaimed, her voice expressing almost as much relief as displeasure, "where have you been?"
Patricia moved restlessly. "I've been--everywhere!"
"Sarah has ransacked