line of his figure, in every hair of his coat, was dragged away through the crowded bazaar.
Judy went to bed very tired. The bazaar had been a success, and the success had been talked over and the money counted till late in the evening—nearly eleven, that is, which is late for Tabbies—yet she woke at four. Some one was calling her. It was—no, he was gone—her eyes pricked at the thought—yet—surely that could be the voice of no other than Alcibiades? She sat up in bed and listened. It was he! That was his dear voice whining at the side gate. Those were his darling paws scratching the sacred paint off it.
Judy swept down the stairs like a silent whirlwind, turned key, drew bolts, and in a moment she and the cur were “sobbing in each other’s arms.”
She carried him up to her room, washed his dear, muddy paws, and spread her golf cape that he might lie on the bed beside her.
In chilliest, earliest dawn she rose and dressed. She found a wire that had supported her pictures at the bazaar, and she wrote a note and tied it to the collar of Alcibiades,
