When dorgs is mixed
beyond a certain p'int it kind o' muddles up their instincks, 'n' you
can't rely on 'em. Still you might try him. Hold still, 'n' see what
he'll do."
Miss Vilda "held still," and Rags jumped on her skirts.
"Now, set down, 'n' see whar he'll go."
Miss Vilda sat down, and Rags went into her lap.
"Now, make believe start somewheres, 'n' mebbe he'll get ahead 'n' put
you on the right track."
Miss Vilda did as she was told, and Rags followed close at her heels.
"Gorry! I never see sech a fool!--or wait,--I'll tell you what's the
matter with him. Mebbe he ain't sech a fool as he looks. You see, he
knows Timothy wants to run away and don't want to be found 'n' clapped
into a 'sylum, 'n' nuther does he. And not bein' sure o' your
intentions, he ain't a-goin' to give hisself away; that's the way I size
Mr. Rags up!"
"Nice doggy, nice doggy!" shuddered Miss Vilda, as Rags precipitated
himself upon her again. "Show me where Timothy is, and then we'll go
back home and have some nice bones. Run and find your little master,
that's a good doggy!"
It would be a clever philosopher who could divine Rags's special method
of logic, or who could write him down either as fool or sage. Suffice it
to say that, at this moment (having run in all other possible
directions, and wishing, doubtless, to keep on moving), he ran round the
wood-pile; and Miss Vilda, following close behind, came upon a little
figure stretched on a bit of gray blanket.
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