"He goes straight to you," said my hostess. "I think he
must have taken a fancy to you."
He had.
To prove it, Weejee gave himself a rotary whirl like a
twirled mop.
"Oh, I'm SO sorry," said Mrs. Sopley. "I am. He's wetted
you. Weejee, lie down, down, sir, good dog, bad dog, lie
down!"
"It's all right," I said. "I've another white suit in my
valise."
"But you must be wet through," said Mrs. Sopley. "Perhaps
we'd better go in. It's getting late, anyway, isn't it?"
And then she added to her husband, "I don't think Weejee
ought to sit out here now that he's wet."
So we went in.
"I think you'll find everything you need," said Sopley,
as he showed me to my room, "and, by the way, don't mind
if Weejee comes into your room at night. We like to let
him run all over the house and he often sleeps on this
bed."
"All right," I said cheerfully, "I'll look after him."
That night Weejee came.
And when it was far on in the dead of night--so that even
the lake and the trees were hushed in sleep, I took Weejee
out and--but there is no need to give the details of it.
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