It was so violent I 'ardly liked to go at fust,
thinking it might be bad news, but I opened it at last, and in bust Sam
Small, with Ginger and Peter.
For five minutes they all talked at once, with their nasty fists 'eld
under my nose. I couldn't make lead or tail of it at fust, and then I
found as 'ow they 'ad got the dog back with them, and that the landlord
'ad said 'e wasn't the one.
"But 'e said as he thought the collar was his," ses Sam. "'Ow do you
account for that?"
"P'r'aps he made a mistake," I ses; "or p'r'aps he thought you'd turn
the dog adrift and he'd get it back for nothing. You know wot landlords
are. Try 'im agin."
"I'd pretty well swear he ain't the same dog," ses Peter Russet, looking
in a puzzled way at Sam and Ginger.
"You take 'im back to-morrow night," I ses. "It's a nice walk to Bow.
And then come back and beg my pardon. I want to 'ave a word with this
policeman here. Goodnight."
THE WEAKER VESSEL
Mr. Gribble sat in his small front parlour in a state of angry
amazement. It was half-past six and there was no Mrs. Gribble; worse
still, there was no tea. It was a state of things that had only
happened once before.
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