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The Master recognized the fast-advancing newcomer. He recognized him from many pictures in newspapers and magazines. This was Rutherford Garretse, world-famed author and collector; the literary lion and chief celebrity of the summer colony at Daylight Park.
Without another word, he wheeled and made off down the road, pausing only to beckon imperiously. Marveling, the group on the veranda followed. Deaf to their questions, he led the way. Lad fell into line behind the perplexed Mistress. Down the road to the next house, stalked Rutherford Garretse. At the doorway, he repeated his dramatic gesture and commanded: "COME!" Up the broad stairs he stamped.
Then, as a sharp whiff of that same baffling scent assailed his nose, he began a new tour of the room. The odor was fresher than before. And Lad's curiosity was roused to the full. He sniffed to right and left, exploring the floor rubbish with inquiring muzzle, and circling the despoiled writing desk. It was then that Garretse called attention to him.
Garretse, and he's shaving, and " "That will do, Esther!" snapped the author. "And, now, sir " "But, Mr. Garretse," put in the Mistress, "Lad never did such a thing as this, in all his life! He's been brought up in the house. Even as a puppy, he was " "The evidence shows otherwise," interrupted Garretse, with a visible struggle at self-control.
Ink had been poured in grotesque pattern on rugs and parquetry and window curtains. In one corner lay a typewriter, its keys twisted and its carriage broken. Through the daze of general horror boomed the tremblingly majestic voice of Rutherford Garretse. "I wanted you to see!" he declaimed. "I ordered everything left as it was.
But if you expect me to believe that Laddie did all this weird damage to your manuscript and your collection and your room, why, that's absurd! Utterly absurd! Lad, never in his life, " "The courts will think otherwise!" blazed Garretse, losing a fraction of his hard-held selfmastery. "And the case shall go through every court in the land, since you persist in this idiotic denial of a proven fact.
That mess of papers all over the floor is what remains of the first draft of my book. The book I have been at work on for six months! "And it was the dog, there!" sputtered the maid-servant; emotion riding over discipline. "I c'n swear the room was neat and all dusted. Not a blessed thing out of place; and all the paper where Mr. Garretse had stacked 'em in his portfolio, yonder.
With an incredibly agile leap, he was on the spattered window curtains and swarming up to the rod at the top. There he squatted, well out of reach; grimacing horribly and chattering in simian wrath. "It's it's a devil!" stammered Rutherford Garretse; his nearsighted eyes squinting as he sought to take in the motley details of the creature's appearance. "It's Mrs.
But what eccentricity of genius could account for his costume and for this bellicose method of bearing down upon a neighbor's home, was more than the Master could guess. Nor did the visitor's first words clear up the mystery. Halting at the foot of the steps, Rutherford Garretse gesticulated in dumb anguish, while he fought for breath and for coherent speech.
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