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Why the dog, of course."

He ain't dead as I know of," replied Billy.

You don't mean to say, my friend, that they let you get away with all this without

sicing the dog on you," said Bridge.

Billy laughed and explained, and the other was relieved--the red mark around

Billy's wrist persisted in remaining uppermost in Bridge's mind.

When they had eaten they lay back upon the grass and smoked some more of

Bridge's tobacco.

Well," inquired Bridge, "what's doing now?"

Let's be hikin'," said Billy.

Bridge rose and stretched. "'My feet are tired and need a change. Come on! It's up

to you!'" he quoted.

Billy gathered together the food they had not yet eaten, and made two equal-sized

packages of it. He handed one to Bridge.

"We'll divide the pack," he explained, "and here, drink the rest o' this milk, I want

the pail."

What are you going to do with the pail?" asked Bridge.

Return it," said Billy. "'Maw' just loaned it to me."

Bridge elevated his eyebrows a trifle. He had been mistaken, after all. At the

farmhouse the farmer's wife greeted them kindly, thanked Billy for returning her

pail--which, if the truth were known, she had not expected to see again--and gave

them each a handful of thick, light, golden-brown cookies, the tops of which were

encrusted with sugar.

As they walked away Bridge sighed. "Nothing on earth like a good woman," he

said.

"'Maw,' or 'Penelope'?" asked Billy.

Either, or both," replied Bridge. "I have no Penelope, but I did have a mighty fine

'maw'."

Billy made no reply. He was thinking of the slovenly, blear-eyed woman who had

brought him into the world. The memory was far from pleasant. He tried to shake

it off.

168

The Mucker