“We will all walk up the river bank and look for him,” said Miss Jule, cheerfully; “the dogs came back that way.” They had only gone a couple of hundred feet up the stream when Anne, who was ahead, called, “There he is, sitting on that rock; he must be tired and afraid to swim over alone.” Then, as they drew nearer, the reason for his sitting still was plain. His heavy curls were a mat of mud, burrs, and briers that must have made either walking or swimming nearly impossible, while the tangle over his eyes was so dense that he could see nothing. His collar was gone, also his bracelet, and his fluffy wristlets hung limp. [Illustration] At a call from his mistress, however, he half stumbled, half plunged into the shallow stream and threw himself into her lap, and she hugged him, thus completing the wreck of her gown, saying, “You poor, poor boy! we are a pair, you and I, because of our clothes, and not knowing the country.” * * * * * It was impossible to comb or pick the straws and burrs from Hamlet’s coat, so next day one of the grooms clipped him close all over and gave him a bath. When he went, meek and shivering with mortification, to his mistress’s room, where she was sitting alone, as the poisoning was doing its work on the scratched wrists and shell-pink ears, she hardly recognized her pet in the lanky black dog with only a tail-tuft left of his curls. As she did not speak, he went over to a low stool, and putting his nose between his paws, “said his prayers,” as she had often made him do for punishment when he had disobeyed. Then, in spite of her misery, she burst into a hearty laugh, and bade him go out and play with the other dogs, which he very readily did, feeling, if antics tell anything, like a little boy who has just put off petticoats. After his clipping Hamlet was cordially received in Dogtown, and considered one of the boys, and whether or not his hair was allowed to grow or if he ever again wore a scented mustache, remains to be seen. CHAPTER III TROUBLE BEGINS During all these days Lumberlegs, the St. Bernard, grew mightily. When he was a year old, he looked like an awkward young calf; but when his second year was ended, he had the tawny head of a lioness, and his body, well rounded yet muscular, was in keeping with his huge paws. When he sat and Tommy stood, their heads were on a level, and when they walked abroad together, Tommy tugging sturdily at his collar to keep pace, they usually had the roadway to themselves, for Lumberlegs was not only the largest inhabitant of Dogtown, but of the whole county, and people made so many remarks about his size that Tommy dubbed him Bigness. [Illustration: _Lumberlegs and Tommy._]