"
"Perhaps," he returned doubtfully. A gleam of rare fun lit up his pale,
vague eyes. "Can't you see him dodging past Saint Peter through the
pearly gates" ("I was brought up a Methodist," he added in apologetic
explanation), "trotting along the alabaster streets sniffing about for
her among all the Shining Ones, listening for her voice amid the sound
of the harps, and when he finds her, hallelujahing with that little bark
that was for her alone: 'Here I am, mistress! Here I am! And _he's_
coming soon, mistress. Your Old Boy is coming soon.'"
When I retailed that conversation to the Little Red Doctor, he snorted
and said that Stepfather Time was one degree crazier than Willy Woolly
and that I wasn't much better than a higher moron myself. Well, if I've
got to be called a fool by my best friends, I'd rather be called it in
Greek than in English. It's more euphonious.
* * * * *
The pair in Number 37 soon settled down to a routine life. Every morning
Stepfather Time got out his big pushcart and set forth in search of
treasure, accompanied by Willy Woolly. Sometimes the dog trotted beneath
the cart; sometimes he rode in it. He was always on the job. Never did
he indulge in those divagations so dear to the normal canine heart.
Other dogs and their ways interested him not. Cats simply did not exist
in his circumscribed life.
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