That very evening, Thorny wrote to a boy cousin in New York giving all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that everything was right.  Much relieved by this performance, the boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it.  Cousin Horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only report a failure.  The owner of the black poodle was a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was stolen.  Knew nothing of his history and was very sorry to lose him, for he was a remarkably clever beast.

“I told my dog man to look about for him, but he says he has probably been killed, with ever so many more, so there is an end of it, and I call it a mean shame.”

“Good for Horace!  I told you he’d do it up thoroughly and see the end of it,” said Thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter.

“May be the end of that dog, but not of mine.  I’ll bet he ran away, and if it was Sanch he’ll come home.  You see if he doesn’t,” cried Ben, refusing to believe that all was over.

“A hundred miles off?  Oh, he couldn’t find you without help, smart as he is,” answered Thorny, incredulously.

Ben looked discouraged, but Miss Celia cheered him up again by saying: 

“Yes, he could.  My father had a friend who kept a little dog in Paris, and the creature found her in Milan and died of fatigue next day.  That was very wonderful, but true, and I’ve no doubt that if Sanch is alive he will come home.  Let us hope so, and be happy while we wait.”

“We will!” said the boys, and day after day looked for the wanderer’s return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he came.  But weeks passed, and still no Sanch.

Something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost forgotten for a time, and Ben found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best friend.

Miss Celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward, as Ben sat in the porch reading, Lita dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered with black mud, showing that she had been down.  For a minute, Ben’s heart stood still, then he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils and wet coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed.

“She has had a fall, but isn’t hurt or frightened,” thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the ground and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the disaster, whatever it was.

“Lita, where’s Miss Celia?” he asked, looking straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild.