“Collie,” answered Dick proudly.  “Pedigreed collie!  You bet she isn’t savage, either.  Why, she’s an angel.  She minds me already.  See—­shake hands, Lass!” “Lass!” ejaculated Mrs. Hazen. “‘She!’ Dick, you don’t mean to tell me you’ve gone and bought yourself a—­a female dog?”

The woman spoke in the tone of horrified contempt that might well have been hers had she found a rattlesnake and a brace of toads in her son’s pocket.  And she lowered her voice, as is the manner of her kind when forced to speak of the unspeakable.  She moved back from the puppy’s politely out-thrust forepaw as from the passing of a garbage cart.

“A female dog!” she reiterated.  “Well, of all the chuckle-heads!  A nasty female dog, with your birthday money!”

“She’s not one bit nasty!” flamed Dick, burying the grubby fingers of his right hand protectively in the fluffy mass of the puppy’s half-grown ruff.  “She’s the dandiest dog ever!  She—­”

“Don’t talk back to me!” snapped Mrs. Hazen.  “Here!  Turn right around and take her to the cheats who sold her to you.  Tell them to keep her and give you the good money you paid for her.  Take her out of my yard this minute!  Quick!”

A hot mist of tears sprang into the boy’s eyes.  Lass, with the queer intuition that tells a female collie when her master is unhappy, whined softly and licked his clenched hand.

“I—­aw, please, Ma!” he begged chokingly.  “Please!  It’s—­it’s my birthday, and everything.  Please let me keep her.  I—­I love her better than ’most anything there is.  Can’t I please keep her?  Please!”

“You heard what I said,” returned his mother curtly.

The washerwoman, who one day a week lightened Mrs. Hazen’s household labors, waddled into view from behind the billows of wind-swirled clothes.  She was an excellent person, and was built for endurance rather than for speed.  At sight of Lass she paused in real interest.

“My!” she exclaimed with flattering approval.  “So you got your dog, did you?  You didn’t waste no time.  And he’s sure a handsome little critter.  Whatcher goin’ to call him?”

“It’s not a him, Irene,” contradicted Mrs. Hazen, with another modest lowering of her strong voice.  “It’s a her.  And I’m sending Dick back with her, to where she came from.  I’ve got my opinion of people who will take advantage of a child’s ignorance, by palming off a horrid female dog on him, too.  Take her away, Dick.  I won’t have her here another minute.  You hear me?”

“Please, Ma!” stammered Dick, battling with his desire to cry.  “Aw, please!  I—­I—­”

“Your ma’s right, Dick,” chimed in the washerwoman, her first interested glance at the puppy changing to one of refined and lofty scorn.  “Take her back.  You don’t want any female dogs around.  No nice folks do.”

“Why not?” demanded the boy in sudden hopeless anger as he pressed lovingly the nose Lass thrust so comfortingly into his hand.  “Why don’t we want a female dog around?  Folks have female cats around them, and female women.  Why isn’t a female dog—­”