“I’ve been cuttin’ his ears for fightin’, my young gentleman,” said Jenkins.  “There is no law to prevent that, is there?”

“And there is no law to prevent my giving you a beating,” said the young man, angrily.  In a trice he had seized Jenkins by the throat, and was pounding him with all his might.  Mrs. Jenkins came and stood at the house door, crying, but making no effort to help her husband.

“Bring me a towel,” the young man cried to her, after he had stretched Jenkins, bruised and frightened, on the ground.  She snatched off her apron, and ran down with it, and the young man wrapped me in it, and taking me carefully in his arms, walked down the path to the gate.  There were some little boys standing there, watching him, their mouths wide open with astonishment.  “Sonny,” he said to the largest of them, “if you will come behind and carry this dog, I will give you a quarter.”

The boy took me, and we set out.  I was all smothered up in a cloth, and moaning with pain, but still I looked out occasionally to see which way we were going.  We took the road to the town and stopped in front of a house on Washington Street.  The young man leaned his bicycle up against the house, took a quarter from his pocket and put it in the boy’s hand, and lifting me gently in his arms, went up a lane leading to the back of the house.

There was a small stable there.  He went into it, put me down on the floor and uncovered my body.  Some boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?”

“Hush,” he said.  “Don’t make a fuss.  You, Jack, go down to the kitchen and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don’t let your mother or Laura hear you.”

A few minutes later, the young man had bathed my bleeding ears and tail, and had rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had bandaged them firmly with strips of cotton.  I felt much better and was able to look about me,

I was in a small stable, that was evidently not used for a stable, but more for a play-room.  There were various kinds of toys scattered about and a swing and bar, such as boys love to twist about on, in two different corners.  In a box against the wall was a guinea pig, looking at me in an interested way.  This guinea pig’s name was Jeff, and he and I became good friends.  A long-haired French rabbit was hopping about, and a tame white rat was perched on the shoulder of one of the boys, and kept his foothold there, no matter how suddenly the boy moved.  There were so many boys, and the stable was so small, that I suppose he was afraid he would get stepped on if he went on the floor.  He stared hard at me with his little, red eyes, and never even glanced at a queer-looking, gray cat that was watching me, too, from her bed in the back of the vacant horse stall.  Out in the sunny yard, some pigeons were pecking at grain, and a spaniel lay asleep in a corner.