There was a bit, of wire loose at the
lower end of the screen, and, in the one second Marguerite's back
was turned--just one second, but just long enough--Missy saw a
velvety nose fumble with the loose wire, saw a sleek neck wedge
itself through the crevice, and a long red tongue lap approvingly
over the sugar-coated crust.
Missy gasped audibly. Mother followed her eyes, turned, saw, jumped
up--but it was too late. Mrs. Merriam viciously struck at Gypsy's
muzzle and pushed the encroaching head back through the aperture.
"Get away from here!" she cried angrily. "You little beast!"
"I think the pony shows remarkably good taste," commented Rev.
MacGill, trying to pass the calamity off as a joke. But his hostess
wasn't capable of an answering smile; she gazed despairingly,
tragically, at the desecrated confection.
"I took such pains with it," she almost wailed. "It was a deep-dish
peach pie--I made it specially for Mr. MacGill."
"Well, I'm not particularly fond of peach pie, anyway," said the
minister, meaning to be soothing.
"Oh, but I know you ARE! Mrs.
Pages:
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296