If he had our
combined pocket-money he'd still be poor," sighed Miss Peters.
"He couldn't be induced to take it unless he earned it," said little
Betsy Barbett. "You all know that."
"Hurrah!" cried Miss Peters, clapping her hands ecstatically; "I have
it! I have it! I have it! We'll put him in the way of earning it."
And they all put their heads together, and the following was the result:
The next day Jack Barkis's telephone rang more often in an hour than it
had ever done before in a month, and every ring meant a call.
The first call was from Miss Daisy Peters, and he responded.
"I'm so sorry to send for you--er--Doctor," she said--she
had always called him Jack before, but now he had come
professionally--"for--for--Rover, but the poor dog is awfully
sick to-day, and Doctor Pruyn was out of town. Do you mind?"
"Certainly not, Daisy," he replied, a shade of disappointment on his
face. I am inclined to believe he had hoped to find old Mr. Peters at
death's door. "If the dog is sick I can help him. What are his
symptoms?"
And Miss Peters went on to say that her cherished Rover, she thought,
had malaria. He was tired and lazy, when usually he rivalled the cow
that jumped over the moon in activity. She neglected to say that she had
with her own fair hands given the poor beast a dose of sulphonal the
night before--not enough to hurt him, but sufficient to make him appear
tired and sleepy.
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