"Do you
suppose we're going to go past a dog and let it die in the rain?
Bring it here, please, Carter."
The old man got down stiffly and picked up the dog. This time he
handed over a second handkerchief with a ludicrous air of "take-it-
and-ruin-it."
"That's the last handkerchief I have with me, Miss Bobby," he
announced feelingly, watching his young mistress mopping water and
mud from the rescued puppy.
"Well, there won't be any more puppies, Carter," Bobby assured him
cheerfully.
But they had not gone twenty rods when they found another, and,
after that, a few rods further on, a fourth.
"Here's where we use our own handkerchiefs," giggled Bobby. "And
what are we going to do with a car full of dogs?"
The problem was solved, however, before they crossed the bridge into
Washington. On the hill leading to the bridge they overtook a small
colored boy weeping bitterly. Bobby signaled Carter to stop, and
leaning out asked the child what the matter was.
"I done lost my dawgs!" he sobbed. "We-all is moving, and I had 'em
in a basket with a burlap bottom. I done tol mammy that burlap was
rotten." He held up the basket for them to see the hole in the cloth
tacked across the bottom.
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