"I am going home," said Stella in a hollow voice. "And I think," she added bitterly, "that it might have occurred to you to suggest that the creature might possibly be going from the Dogs' Home and not to it."
I apologized. It is the simplest plan, really.
IT was almost dark when the train arrived at our little country station. We set out to walk home by the short cut across the golf course.
"Anyhow, we have saved five shillings," remarked Stella.
"We paid half a crown for that taxi which took us back to Victoria Station," I reminded her.
"Do not argue to-night, darling," responded my wife. "I simply cannot endure anything more."
Plainly she was a little unstrung. Very considerately, I selected another topic.
"I think our best plan," I said cheerfully, "would be to advertise for a dog."
"I never wish to see a dog again," replied Stella.
I surveyed her with some concern and said gently:--
"Nothing of the kind. Joe, what is that?"
Stella's fingers bit deep into my biceps muscle, causing me considerable pain. We were passing a small sheet of water which guards the thirteenth green on the golf course. It is a stagnant and unclean pool, but we make rather a fuss of it. We call it the pond; and if you play a ball into it you send a blasphemous caddie in after it and count one stroke.
A young moon was struggling up over the trees, dismally illuminating the scene. On the slimy shores of the pond we beheld a small moving object.
A yard behind it was another object, a little smaller, moving at exactly the same pace. One of the objects was emitting sounds of distress.
Abandoning my quaking consort I advanced to the edge of the pond and leaned down to investigate the mystery.
The leading object proved to be a small, wet, shivering, whimpering puppy. The satellite was a brick. The two were connected by a string. The puppy had just emerged from the depths of the pond, towing the brick behind it.
"What is it, dear?" repeated Stella fearfully.
"Your dog!" I replied, and cut the string.
WE spent three days deciding on a name for him. Stella suggested Tiny, on account of his size. I pointed out that time might stultify this selection of a title.
"I don't think so," said Eileen, supporting her sister. "That kind of dog does not grow very big."