It turned and fastened
its teeth on her hand, but very gently, as much as to say:--
"I'm bound to bark and bite if strangers come into my master's
cabin, but I know you mean well, so I won't REALLY bite."
Bobbie dropped the dog.
"All right, old man. Good dog," said she. "Here--give me the baby,
Peter; you're so wet you'll give it cold."
Peter was only too glad to hand over the strange little bundle that
squirmed and whimpered in his arms.
"Now," said Bobbie, quickly, "you run straight to the 'Rose and
Crown' and tell them. Phil and I will stay here with the precious.
Hush, then, a dear, a duck, a darling! Go NOW, Peter! Run!"
"I can't run in these things," said Peter, firmly; "they're as heavy
as lead. I'll walk."
"Then I'LL run," said Bobbie. "Get on the bank, Phil, and I'll hand
you the dear."
The baby was carefully handed. Phyllis sat down on the bank and
tried to hush the baby. Peter wrung the water from his sleeves and
knickerbocker legs as well as he could, and it was Bobbie who ran
like the wind across the bridge and up the long white quiet twilight
road towards the 'Rose and Crown.'
There is a nice old-fashioned room at the 'Rose and Crown; where
Bargees and their wives sit of an evening drinking their supper
beer, and toasting their supper cheese at a glowing basketful of
coals that sticks out into the room under a great hooded chimney and
is warmer and prettier and more comforting than any other fireplace
_I_ ever saw.
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