breath, expecting to see the dog come bounding into sight. But nothing happened.
“You go first, Roy,” said Chub. “Dick and I can run faster than you.”
“Want me to have the first bite, eh?” laughed Roy, as he put a knee over the sill.
“Be quiet! Don’t make so much noise,” said Chub. “Get on out.”
Roy was sitting on the sill, his feet dangling above the flower bed.
“That’s all right,” he muttered, “but—say, Dick, go back and take a peek out of the window and see if he’s still there.”
“All right.” Dick tiptoed back to the kitchen.
“I don’t know,” said Chub, “that I should want the family to walk in now and discover us. We might have some difficulty in—Hello!”
He darted away from the window, leaving Roy blankly confronting a very tall man with a tangled black beard, who had suddenly and noiselessly come around the corner of the house. He wore dirty brown jumpers, carried a single barreled shot-gun, and wasn’t at all prepossessing. And beside him, still growling and bristling, was the yellow dog. Roy stared silently with open mouth.
