followed his thought. He glanced at
the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on
the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he
tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went
to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.

Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly
re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair
aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the
resources of Scipio's _menage_. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a
towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own.
Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was
deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that
caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked
the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill's expense.
He had provided everything that a man's mind could conceive as being
necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no
provision for a yellow pup.

By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In
a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old coon-ditty. The
effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive
ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly.
Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and,
throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of
dismay that Sunny's melody became entirely lost in a jangle of
discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing
pup's head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in
their yellow friend's lament.

Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal
protest--whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the
flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and
must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to
cajole the children, while he surreptitiously let fly a kick at the
pup.

"Say, you bonny kids, you ain't scairt o' poor Sunny Oak," he cried,
while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through
the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the
weeping children. "It's jest Sunny Oak wot nobody'll let rest," he
went on coaxingly. "He's come along to feed you supper. Say," he
cried, laboring hard for inspiration, "it's such a bully supper.
Ther's molasses, an'