A week has passed. It is a Saturday morning and Jonesie, immaculately
clad and whistling blithely, is on his way to the village to make
purchases. He has quite a number of commissions to fill, for nine of
his particular friends and cronies are suffering probation, a condition
which prevents them from leaving the confines of the school, while
another is recovering slowly from bodily injuries inflicted by Jonesie
with the whole-hearted, enthusiastic assistance of the nine. Jonesie is
in very good spirits. The sun is warm and the sky is blue, before him
lie the marts of trade stocked with delectables that appeal to hungry
boyhood, and, while others languish in durance vile, liberty is his! He
is sorry for those others――when he thinks of them――but his grief is not
deep enough to darken his life.
As he approaches Perkins’s Livery and Sales Stable a rotund man
whittling a stick and chewing a straw in front of the office door
observes him with interest. The whittling ceases and the chair, which
has been tilted back against the stable, comes down on all four legs.
“Hello,” greets the liveryman. “Haven’t forgot about that dog of yours,
have you? You ain’t been around to see him lately.”
“Dog?” asks Jonesie, wrinkling his innocent young brow. “What dog?”
The liveryman stares.
“_What_ dog! Why, the dog you bought off me ’most two weeks ago! Ain’t
forgotten him, have you?”
Jonesie shakes his head helplessly. “I fancy,” he responds distantly,
“you’ve made a mistake. I don’t own any dog.”
“Don’t own any―――― Say, didn’t you and that friend of yours buy my fox
terrier a while back and pay me five dollars for him and agree to pay
me four dollars a month for boarding of him? Didn’t you and he――――”
Jonesie shakes his head gently and passes by.
“I don’t know anything about any dog,” he says. “Must have been someone
else.”
“Ain’t your name Jones?”
“Oh, yes, but it’s quite a common name.”
“But――but didn’t you buy my dog? You and that other feller?”
“Certainly not!” replied Jonesie in pained protest. “We are not allowed
to keep dogs at Randall’s. I wouldn’t think of transgressing the rules
of the school, you know.”
The liveryman studies Jonesie’s guileless countenance for a moment, and
his mouth slowly falls open. Jonesie looks dreamily up the street.
“Of course if you _have_ a dog, though, I’d advise you to keep him away
from rats,” he says kindly. “They might bite him.”
Then, whistling blithely, Jonesie passes on.