The Argosy, September 1915 — page 51: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE-CYLINDER SAM. the empty shelf, went back to the de- serted breakfast-table and resumed her grapefruit. “T had no idea,’ she murmured softly, “ that they worked the burglar- alarm. I thought they worked the door-bell. But—I’m glad!” Rosalind was the only person who did not finish: breakfast in desultory fashion. She ate deliberately and con- tentedly. There were no disturbing symptoms in her conscience. She was revenged—revenged for the shock of the midnight alarm, for the flight in the darkness, for the knee that bumped itself on the chair, for the night in the boat-house, for a gown that would never be worn again; yes, for every- thing save the bracelet. That was adorning the arm of Gertrude this morning. But she would be revenged for that, too, she told herself. And when Rosa- lind Chalmers promised herself any- thing, she was a patient and persistent performer. “What in the world are you laugh- ing at, Rosalind?” asked Mrs. With- erbee. “Was I laughing? It was rather rude of me. But a burglar-alarm seems . such a funny thing to steal. Think of stealing a noise!” “To tell you the truth, my dear,” said Mrs. Witherbee, after making sure that her husband was not within hearing, “I’m glad the old batteries are gone. ‘They frightened me nearly to death night before last. Of course, I don’t like to have thieves about; but if they must come, I’d much prefer they'd let me sleep.” Tom and his sister, Polly Dawson and Mr. Morton were playing tennis; Fortescue Jones and the Perkins young man were smoking cigarettes, and the two Winter girls were knitting for the Belgians, when Mr. Witherbee hove in sight, leading a reluctant dog. There was a general suspension of industry. ‘* Where'd you get that, dad? ” asked Tom. | 265 “Been over to Davidson’s in the launch,” said Mr. Witherbee. “ Here! Buck up—Rover, Prince, Fido—what the deuce did he say your name was, anyhow? Hold you head up; get that tail out. Some dog—eh?” “What’s he for?” “ Burglars.”’ Rosalind checked a smile and stroked the ears of the cringing ani- mal. “Is he well recommended? ”’ asked. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that,” answered Mr. Witherbee, as he re- garded the beast frowningly. “ Da- vidson says he isn’t worth a hoot. But he thought maybe if he was kept on a strange place where he doesn’t feel at home, he might get fierce again. So I don’t want any of you to make friends with him. I’m going to put him on short rations until he gets a mean opinion of everybody.” “He doesn’t seem as if he ever had been fierce,” observed Rosalind, as the dog thrust his muzzle into her palm. “ He’s got a pedigree,” declared Mr. Witherbee as he dragged the animal away from the friendly hand. “ His father bit a man once, so Davidson says. And one of his brothers got killed in a fight. He’s got the stuff in him, if there’s any way to bring it out.”’ “You mean to say, Stephen,” re- marked Mrs. Witherbee severely, “ that you propose to train that animal to bite us?” “ Not us, madam; certainly not! I mean to train him to bite burglars.” “Of course,” said Tom Witherbee, as he walked back to the tennis-court, “he'll need a practise bite now and then. Wait and see if dad doesn’t call for volunteers.” “All right, young man!” snorted his father. ‘‘ The amount of interest you show in protecting your mother, your sister, and myself is no credit to you. But let me tell you, sir, that other persons hereabouts are realizing the seriousness of this situation. We are Davidson has called a she organizing. CORNICLOOOKS (S@)