ssed her. When he looked
again, attendants were carrying her swiftly to the clubhouse. He sped
toward it, Owen following.

Harry tore his way through the excited crowd to the side of Pauline. A
doctor was administering restoratives. Pauline opened her eyes and
looked about her bewildered. She saw Harry's anxious face and smiled
penitently.

"I've--learned a lesson this time," she whispered.

"It is nothing serious--her shoulder bruised a little," said the
doctor.

"Thank Heaven!" breathed Raymond Owen with well feigned emotion.

CHAPTER XIX

OWEN OFFERS A REWARD

Cries of delight coming, in the voice of Pauline, from the direction
of the garage made Harry lay down his newspaper and go forth to
investigate.

As he approached he saw Bemis and Lucille's coachman lifting a crate
from a carriage. From within the crate came the whimpering barks of an
imprisoned bull terrier.

"Oh, isn't he dear?" cried Pauline turning to Harry.

"I don't know, I haven't yet made his acquaintance. Where did he come
from?"

"Lucille sent him to me. Johnson just brought him over. Hurry, Bemis,
and let him out. The poor darling!"

"Is that what is called puppy love?" inquired Harry.

"Hush," commanded Pauline. "And Bemis, run and tell Martha to cook
something for him--a beefsteak and potatoes."

"And oysters on the half shell," suggested Harry.

"Love me," announced Pauline sternly, "love my dog."

The coachman had ripped of the last top bar of the crate and a splendid
terrier sprang out with a suddenness that made Pauline retreat a
little. But, as if he had been trained to his part, he bent his head,
and, with wagging tail, approached her. In an instant she was kneeling
beside him rewarding his homage with enthusiastic pats and fantastic
encomiums.

"Why, he likes me already--isn't he charming?" she demanded.

Harry threw up his hands-- "And this for a dog--a new dog--possibly
a mad dog!"

"You are a brute."

The dog was making rapid acquaintance with his new home, investigating
the garage and, more profoundly, the kitchen, door.

"Here, Cyrus, come Cyrus," called Pauline, and started towards the
house. Owen, in his motorcycle togs, was lighting a cigar on the
veranda when they came up the steps. Without even pretending to enter
into Pauline's enthusiasm over the terrier, he excused himself and
walked off briskly in the direction of the garage. A few minutes later
they saw him on the motorc