He jumped up immediately and went to find Crumpet. A little way down the chalk-pit a fox-terrier puppy was balancing its fat body on a ledge of chalk and looking piteously up and down. Peter clambered down, caught the little struggling animal in his arms, and restored it to its mistress. And now followed an immense deal of kissing and embracing. The dog was buried in red hair and only once and again a wriggling paw might be observed--also these exclamations--“Oh, the umpty-rumpty--was it nearly falling down the great horrid pit, the darling--oh, the little darling, and was it scratched, the pet? But it was a wicked little dog--yes, it was, to go down that nasty place when it was told not to”--more murmurings, and then the back was straightened, the red, gold hair flung back, and a flushed face turned to the rather awkward Peter who stood at attention. “Thank you--thanks, most awfully--oh, you darling” (this to the puppy). “You see, Miss Jackson was reading her Bible aloud to herself, and I can't stand that, neither can Crumpet, and she always forgets all about us, and so we go away by ourselves--and reading the Bible makes her sleep--she's asleep now--and then Crumpet wouldn't stay at heel although I was telling him ever so hard, and he would go over the cliff--and if you hadn't been there...” at the thought of the awful disaster the puppy was again embraced. Apparently Crumpet was no sentimentalist, and had had enough of feminine emotion--he wriggled out of his mistress' arms, flopped to the ground, shook himself, and, advancing to Peter, smelt his boots. “He likes you. I'm so glad--he only does that to people he likes, and he's very particular.” The small girl flung her hair back, smiled at Peter, and sat down on the grass. “It may be rather damp,” Peter said, feeling very old and cautious and thinking that she really was the oddest child he'd even seen in his life. “It's only March you know.” “It's nothing to do with months, it's whether it's rained or not--and it hasn't--sit down with me. Old Jackson won't be here for ages.” Peter sat down. The puppy was a charming specimen of its kind--it had enormous ears, huge flat feet, and a round fat body like a very small barrel. It was very fond of Peter, and licked his cheek and his hands, and finally dragged off his cap, imagined it a rabbit, and bit it with a great deal of savagery and good-humour. There followed conversation. “I like you most awfully. I like your neck and your eyes and your hair--it's stiff, like my father's. My name is Clare Elizabeth Rossiter. What's yours?” “Peter Westcott.” “Do you live here?” “No--a good long way away--by the sea.” “Oh, I'm staying at Kenwyn--my uncle lives at Kenwyn, but I live in London with father and mother and Aunt Grace--it's nice here. I think you're such a nice boy. Will you come and see father and mother in London?”