“Mr. Muir, excuse me a moment, but Fuzz will disturb Fred, who is ill to-day. I must just let him in.”
Frank Muir dropped down into his chair again, with an expression singularly like that of disgust on his pleasant face. Fuzz came dancing into the room, stopped at sight of a supposed stranger, and growled threateningly. Then, recognizing him as a friend, he leaped to his knee and began scratching at his shoulders and face, in token of friendly welcome.
There was another interval of brief remarks and long pauses. Then Mr. Muir cleared his throat and began anew.
“I was just going to say, when Fuzz”—
Another interruption, this time from Fred, whose bell rang sharply. Bess again excused herself and ran up-stairs. She soon returned.
“Poor Fred,” she said, as she seated herself once more; “he is paying dearly for his Thanksgiving frolic.”
“Am I keeping you from him?” asked Mr. Muir courteously.
“Oh, no. There is nothing I can do for him now.”
