question of drainage. (Mr. Poodle had told him that if he had the pond
and swamp drained, the frog-song would not annoy him.) But to-night,
when the keen chirruping ceased, there was still another sound that did
not cease--a faint, appealing cry. It caused a prickling on his shoulder
blades, it made him both angry and tender. He pushed through the bushes.
In a little hollow were three small puppies, whining faintly. They were
cold and draggled with mud. Someone had left them there, evidently,
to perish. They were huddled close together; their eyes, a cloudy
unspeculative blue, were only just opened. "This is gruesome," said
Gissing, pretending to be shocked. "Dear me, innocent pledges of sin, I
dare say. Well, there is only one thing to do."

He picked them up carefully and carried them home.

"Quick, Fuji!" he said. "Warm some milk, some of the Grade A, and put a
little brandy in it. I'll get the spare-room bed ready."

He rushed upstairs, wrapped the puppies in a blanket, and turned on the
electric heater to take the chill from the spare-room. The little pads
of their paws were ice-cold, and he filled the hot water bottle and held
it carefully to their twelve feet. Their pink stomachs throbbed, and at
first he feared they were dying. "They must not die!" he said fiercely.
"If they did, it would be a matter for the police, and no end of
trouble."

Fuji came up with the milk, and looked very grave when he saw the muddy
footprints on the clean sheet.

"Now, Fuji," said Gissing, "do you suppose they can lap, or will we have
to pour it down?"

In spite of his superior manner, Fuji was a good fellow in an emergency.
It was he who suggested the fountain-pen filler. They washed the ink
out of it, and used it to drip the hot brandy-and-milk down the puppies'
throats. Their noses, which had been icy, suddenly became very hot and
dry. Gissing feared a fever and thought their temperatures should be
taken.

"The only thermometer we have," he said, "is the one on the porch, with
the mercury split in two. I don't suppose that would do. Have you a
clinical thermometer, Fuji?"

Fuji felt that his employer was making too much fuss over the matter.

"No, sir," he said firmly. "They are quite all right. A good sleep will
revive them. They will be as fit as possible in the morning."

Fuji went out into the garden to brush the mud from his neat white
jacket. His face was inscrutable. Gissing sat by the spare-room bed
until he