n't hurt you."

I wagged myself about a little, and looked kindly at her, but she did
nothing but say bad words to me. It was weeks and weeks before I made
friends with that cat. She was a young thing, and had known only one
dog, and he was a bad one, so she supposed all dogs were like him.

There was a number of rooms opening off the hall, and one of them was
the dining room where they had tea. I lay on a rug outside the door and
watched them. There was a small table spread with a white cloth, and it
had pretty dishes and glassware on it, and a good many different kinds
of things to eat. A little French girl, called Adele, kept coming and
going from the kitchen to give them hot cakes, and fried eggs, and hot
coffee. As soon as they finished their tea, Mrs. Wood gave me one of the
best meals that I ever had in my life.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVII

MR. WOOD AND HIS HORSES

The morning after we arrived in Riverdale I was up very early and
walking around the house. I slept in the woodshed, and could run
outdoors whenever I liked.

The woodshed was at the back of the house, and near it was the tool
shed. Then there was a carriage house, and a plank walk leading to the
barnyard.

I ran up this walk, and looked into the first building I came to. It was
the horse stable. A door stood open, and the morning sun was glancing
in. There were several horses there, some with their heads toward me,
and some with their tails. I saw that instead of being tied up, there
were gates outside their stalls, and they could stand in any way they
liked.

There was a man moving about at the other end of the stable, and long
before he saw me, I knew that it was Mr. Wood. What a nice, clean stable
he had! There was always a foul smell coming out of Jenkins's stable,
but here the air seemed as pure inside as outside. There was a number of
little gratings in the wall to let in the fresh air, and they were so
placed that drafts would not blow on the horses. Mr. Wood was going from
one horse to another, giving them hay, and talking to them in a cheerful
voice. At last he spied me, and cried out, "The top of the morning to
you, Joe! You are up early. Don't come too near the horses, good dog,"
as I walked in beside him; "they might think you are another Bruno, and
give you a sly bite or kick. I should have shot him long ago. 'Tis hard
to make a good dog suffer for a bad one, but that's the way of