Which view of the case did not in the least appeal to the indignant maker of the custard.

Seeing which, Patricia concluded that the best thing to do was to take her charge away as quickly as possible.  And in the confusion milk and cookies were quite forgotten.

“Really, you know,” Patricia admonished, once they were outside the gate, “you’re not behaving at all well!  Tearing table-cloths, chasing cats, and eating up custards aren’t at all good dog manners.”

The culprit, quick to detect the disapproval in Patricia’s voice, thought it time to limp again.

“Is your paw very bad?” Patricia asked.

The dog assured her that it was.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do next,” Patricia told him.  And once back on the main road, she came to a standstill.  She couldn’t take her protege home; even less could she desert him.  She sat down by the roadside to consider the matter—­to consider various other matters, as well.  Even with Patricias there comes the moment of reckoning.

Aunt Julia had said that the next time she evaded sewing-lesson she must go to bed at five o’clock.  Patricia stretched out her tired little legs; at the present moment that particular form of punishment did not appear very unendurable.  Just now, however, it seemed doubtful if she would be at home by five o’clock.

Also, Daddy had said that the next time she broke bounds in this way he should be obliged to punish her.  Patricia fanned herself with a decidedly dingy pocket-handkerchief; she wished Daddy had said—­how.

“I’m not saying you’re not a very nice dog,” Patricia patted her companion, curled up on the folds of her short skirts; “still, if I hadn’t met you this morning—­”

The dog blinked sleepily, licking her hand.  Perhaps he was thinking of a poor, forlorn little animal who had until that morning been hunted and driven, half starved, never caressed.

“I wonder,” Patricia said, anxiously, “if Mr. Carr wouldn’t like you?  We’ll go see, at any rate.”

Up the hill they trudged, to where, in his little cabin, lived old Carr, the cobbler.

He was at his bench as usual, and he paused, needle in air, at sight of his visitors.

Patricia was growing desperate; she went straight to the heart of her errand.

She and Carr were great friends, and the latter was immensely interested.  Over his spectacles he surveyed the pair.  Patricia’s gray eyes had lost their confidence; they were almost as unconsciously pathetic as the dog’s brown ones.

“Well,” Carr said, slowly, “there’s no denying a dog’s company; and since old Sampson died—­”

Patricia beamed.  “Then you will take him?  And you won’t mind if he’s rather—­lively?  You see, he’s so very young.  Maybe, I’d better tell you everything.”  And sitting down on one end of the workbench, Patricia made full confession of her charge’s misdoings.  “But I think he’s sorry,” she ended, hopefully.