You
want to take good care of this little tyke, for the railroad is
responsible for him while he is in transit."
He stooped down and brought his light to bear upon the tag wired to the
top of the crate. "Ravell Bulson, Jr., Owneyville, Illinois," he read
aloud, making a note of it in his book.
"Oh!" ejaculated Nan.
"Oh!" repeated Bess.
Then both together the chums gasped: "That fat man!"
"Hullo!" observed the conductor, slipping the toggles out of the hasp,
which kept the door of the dog crate closed. "Do you girls know the owner
of this pup? You seem to know everybody."
"We know a Mr. Ravell Bulson by sight, Mr. Carter," Nan said quietly.
"And he's just the meanest man!" began impulsive Bess; but her chum
stopped her with a glance.
"Well! Mr. Ravell Bulson, Jr., has a fine pup here," declared the
conductor, releasing the agitated little creature.
The spaniel could not show his delight sufficiently when he was out of
the crate. He capered about them, licking the girl's shoes, tumbling
down in his haste and weakness, and uttering his funny little bark in
excited staccato.
Bess finally grabbed him up and, after kissing her, suddenly, right under
the ear, and making her squeal, he snuggled down in her arms, his little
pink tongue hanging out and his eyes shining (so Bess declared) like "two
brown stars.
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