The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon Part 13

And he won't either. No. Bring him in here."

"Here?" His tone was aghast; barbers are aseptic souls.

"Yes, of course."

"In bed?"

"Certainly."

"Oh, Blossom!"

"We can't leave him in the cold, can we?"

"But, Blossom, suppose he's--suppose he has----"

The hiatus was expressive.

"He hasn't." Her voice was one of indignant denial. "Pedigreed dogs don't. Why, the kennels were immaculate."

"Humph," said Mr. Pottle dubiously. He strode into the kitchen and returned with Pershing in his arms; he plumped the small, bushy, whining animal in bed beside his wife.

"I suppose, Mrs. Pottle," he said, "that you are prepared to take the consequences."

She stroked the squirming thing, which emitted small, protesting bleats.

"Don't you mind the na.s.sy man, sweetie-pie," she cooed. "Casting 'spersions on poor li'l lonesome doggie." Then, to her husband, "Ambrose, how can you suggest such a thing? Don't stand there in the cold."

"Nevertheless," said Mr. Pottle, oracularly, as he prepared to seek slumber at a point as remote as possible in the bed from Pershing, "I'll bet a dollar to a doughnut that I'm right."

Mr. Pottle won his doughnut. At three o'clock in the morning, with the mercury flirting with the freezing mark, he suddenly surged up from his pillow, made twitching motions with limbs and shoulders, and stalked out into the living room, where he finished the night on a hard-boiled army cot, used for guests.

As the days hurried by, he had to admit that the kennel man's predictions about the rapid growth of the animal seemed likely of fulfillment. In a very few weeks the offspring of Gloria Audacious Indomitable had attained prodigious proportions.

"But, Blossom," said Mr. Pottle, eyeing the animal as it gnawed industriously at the golden oak legs of the player piano, "isn't he growing in a sort of funny way?"

"Funny way, Ambrose?"

"Yes, dear; funny way. Look at his legs."

She contemplated those members.

"Well?"

"They're kinda brief, aren't they, Blossom?"

"Naturally. He's no giraffe, Ambrose. Young thoroughbreds have small legs. Just like babies."

"But he seems so sorta long in proportion to his legs," said Mr. Pottle, critically. "He gets to look more like an overgrown caterpillar every day."

"You said yourself, Ambrose, that you know nothing about dogs," his wife reminded him. "The legs always develop last. Give Pershing a chance to get his growth; then you'll see."

Mr. Pottle shrugged, unconvinced.

"It's time to take Pershing out for his airing," Mrs. Pottle observed.

A fretwork of displeasure appeared on the normally bland brow of Mr.

Pottle.

"Lotta good that does," he grunted. "Besides, I'm getting tired of leading him around on a string. He's so darn funny looking; the boys are beginning to kid me about him."

"Do you want me to go out," asked Mrs. Pottle, "with this heavy cold?"

"Oh, all right," said Mr. Pottle blackly.

"Now, Pershing precious, let mama put on your li'l blanket so you can go for a nice li'l walk with your papa."

"I'm not his papa," growled Mr. Pottle, rebelliously. "I'm no relation of his."

However, the neighbors along Garden Avenue presently spied a short, rotund man, progressing with reluctant step along the street, in his hand a leathern leash at the end of which ambled a pup whose physique was the occasion of some discussion among the dog-fanciers who beheld it.

"Blossom," said Mr. Pottle--it was after Pershing had outgrown two boxes and a large wash-basket--"you may say what you like but that dog of yours looks funny to me."

"How can you say that?" she retorted. "Just look at that long heavy coat. Look at that big, handsome head. Look at those knowing eyes, as if he understood every word we're saying."

"But his legs, Blossom, his legs!"

"They are a wee, tiny bit short," she confessed. "But he's still in his infancy. Perhaps we don't feed him often enough."

"No?" said Mr. Pottle with a rising inflection which had the perfume of sarcasm about it, "No? I suppose seven times a day, including once in the middle of the night isn't often enough?"

"Honestly, Ambrose, you'd think you were an early Christian martyr being devoured by tigers to hear all the fuss you make about getting up just once for five or ten minutes in the night to feed poor, hungry little Pershing."

"It hardly seems worth it," remarked Mr. Pottle, "with him turning out this way."

"What way?"

"Bandy-legged."

"St. Bernards," she said with dignity, "do not run to legs. Mungles may be all leggy, but not full blooded St. Bernards. He's a baby, remember that, Ambrose Pottle."

"He eats more than a full grown farm hand," said Mr. Pottle. "And steak at fifty cents a pound!"

"You can't bring up a delicate dog like Pershing on liver," said Mrs.

Pottle, crushingly. "Now run along, Ambrose, and take him for a good airing, while I get his evening broth ready."