At the end of an hour Mr. Maclin returned. With him came the little
brown dog. He wriggled joyously, and planted his dirty feet on Miss
Clementina's trailing skirts.
"His manners are just as bad as ever," she said. "But I'm _so_ glad to
have him back. Was it the dog-catcher?"
"It was the dog-catcher," said Mr. Maclin. "But it won't happen again.
I've paid his tax and bought him a collar. See, there's a place on it
for his owner's name. But, of course, I couldn't have it engraved, for
he seems to have no owner. Miss Clementina, don't you think it a pity
for so nice a little dog not to belong to some one?"
There was that in Mr. Maclin's voice that brought a faint flush to
Miss Clementina's cheek.
"I suppose," went on the gentleman, "when he's digging in your
geranium bed he thinks he's _your_ dog, and when he's chewing my
doormat he's probably laboring under the delusion that he's _my_ dog.
Miss Clementina, it would be so easy to make him _our_ dog. Don't you
think we'd better?"
"I--I don't know," faltered Miss Clementina.
But the words were muffled against Mr. Maclin's coat, and he took the
liberty of assuming that she did know.