A wail of anguish went up from Mrs. Colvin. The Colonel stood, thunderstruck and unhappy, yanking back on the chains of his other two leaping pups. Just then Pepper darted kiyi-ing from under the table and raced for the upstairs stairway. Aunty couldn’t reach him with her broom, but she whipped off a huge boot and hurled it after him, just missing a Vernis-Martin glass cabinet by inches as Pep bolted up the stairs to hide under a bed, where the boys followed, howling with glee, to recapture him. Aunty Sally stopped and glared at the Colonel reprovingly. “Marse Colvin, you done got _three_ of them thievin’, potlicker smell-dawgs?” she accused,--“I’se shore ’shamed of you-all!--There, there, honey, don’t cry!” she soothed, taking Mrs. Colvin in her arms while the boys came back with Pepper, yelling with ungodly joy. “He’s gwine take them right out’n yeah, Missus,--or I don’t cook him another waffle--so there, Kuhn-nel, ’deed I isn’t!” she flared at him. Colonel Colvin’s jaw dropped as he stood irresolutely, with the pups winding their chains about and about his legs. Aunty Sally was an ancient institution in the Colvin household. She had raised Sid from a baby, and had grown up with the Colvins since they had settled east. A power in the household, he could not conceive how they were to get along without her, for no one else could cook any such waffles! Then he beat a masterly and strategic retreat. “I guess it’s outdoors for them!” he surrendered, at discretion. “We’ll build a kennel for them, right away--look _out_, Scotty!--there goes Bourbon!--Catch him, boys!” Scotty had volunteered to hold Bourbon, the second pup, but somehow his fingers had become relaxed and Bourbon was off like a flash, darting for the pantry door where his nose told him there were eats. The boys followed on the run. They found the kitchen empty, save for an atmosphere of appetizing odors. No sign of the pup anywhere! They stood still and listened. Then a cold draft from somewhere led them to the back door of the kitchen. It stood partly ajar, and from outside came a swift lapping as of a dog’s tongue. Dashing out, there was Bourbon, standing in the snow, his nose deep in a huge tureen of chicken gumbo for the whole family, put out there to cool off! It was red hot, but Bourbon was transferring it, as fast as he could make his tongue go. “Yeow!” whooped Sid, leaning up against Scotty, who leaned against him, weak from laughter. “Come on--bring ’em out, Father--they might as well _all_ finish it up, now!”