"You never noticed it," she said somewhat pettishly; "but one time on the yacht, I came up on deck with Chubbie. You were over by the rail. You snapped your fingers to him. I ordered him to stay with me. He wouldn't mind. He went to you. Well, I decided right then what I'd do."
"Why, shucks, Miss Josephine!" Zeke exclaimed, in much distress. "He jest nacherly didn't mean nothin' by thet."
"He showed something by it, though," was the retort. "He showed that he belonged to you, and not to me. So, here he is." She held out the leash to Zeke, who took it doubtfully, only half-comprehending. As he was about to speak, a gesture checked him.
"I'm not really a bit generous in giving him to you. My dog must like me better than anyone else in the world. That's why I really don't want Chubbie any longer. You're first in his heart, and I'm second. And, though I'm quite selfish about it, I know I'm doing him the greatest favor in the world--that is, if you're willing to take him."
"I'd shore be tickled to death to have him," Zeke admitted. "But it don't seem right."
"Providence seems to have arranged it that way, anyhow," Josephine declared, airily. "Perhaps, if a surgeon operated on him for the dent you put in his skull, he might cease loving you. But nothing else seems likely to stop him."
The dog, thrusting its cold muzzle against Zeke's palm, whined assent. Josephine regarded her disloyal pet a little regretfully.
"He's a good dog," she said, softly. "He deserves to be happy."
"Plutiny'll be plumb tickled to see the critter I've wrote sech a heap about," Zeke remarked. His eyes were suddenly grown dreamy.
"You and your Plutina!" she railed. But her voice was very kindly. When she had learned of the young man's prospects and the nearness of his return home, she uttered a remark that puzzled Zeke.
"You don't need to envy anyone." There was a light almost of jealousy in the blue eyes.
"Why, I never thought o' sech a thing!" he answered indignantly. "Why should I?"
"Why, indeed?" Josephine repeated, and she sighed. She sighed again on taking leave, when she observed that the bull-terrier made no movement to accompany her, but stood steadfastly by Zeke's side.
* * * * * Into the happy, busy routine of Zeke's life in New York, Uncle Dick's telegram came with the crash of catastrophe. It was merely with innocent wondering that he opened the yellow envelope, which a messenger delivered in Sutton's office on a pleasant summer afternoon. It was the first missive of the sort in Zeke's experience, yet he felt no slightest chill of apprehension. His mood was too firmly joyous to be easily shaken. He merely wondered, and felt no fear whatever, as he pulled out the sheet of flimsy paper, and unfolded it, while his employer sat looking on curiously, himself already suspicious of trouble. Zeke read the typewritten words through stupidly, under the first shock uncomprehending. Then, he repeated the message aloud, as if challenging its meaning.