' is not an
ordinary name for a dog, though it is common enough for a man."

"Nobody, not even the person most concerned, would know if I were to
call him 'Son,' the termination of 'Robinson,' you know," explained May,
after a moment spent in concocting this subtle amendment, and in
fondling the unconscious recipient of a title which was to distinguish
him from the mass of dogs.

"Are you out of your senses, May?" was the sole comment Dora deigned to
deliver with some energy.

"'Friend,'" speculated May; "there is nothing very distinctive about
'Friend,' and I am sure it was the act of a friend to get him for me."

"'Foe' would be shorter and more easily said," was Dora's provoking
comment; "or why not 'Fox,' since he is a fox-terrier? You might also
desire to commemorate the donor's complexion, which you all used to call
foxy," said Dora, half reproachfully, half dryly.

"I don't like _doubles entendres_," said May with dignity, "and if I
ever said anything unkind of Tom Robinson I don't wish to be reminded of
it now; anyhow, I could never give a sneer in return for a kindness."

"No, I don't believe you could, May," said Dora, penitently.

May continued a little nettled in spite of her natural good temper.

"What are Shakespeare's names for little dogs?" she asked. "'Blanche,'
'Tray,' and 'Sweetheart.' You could not be 'Blanche,' could you, pet,
unless you were '_Blanche et Noir_'? and that is too long and reminds
one of a gaming-table. You could not be 'Sweetheart,'" went on May,
revenging herself with great coolness and deliberation in view of the
red that flew into Dora's cheeks; "no, of course not, because Mr. Tom
Robinson is not, never has been, and never will be _my_ sweetheart.
There is only 'Tray' left. Well, I think it is rather a good name,"
considered May, critically. "'Old dog Tray' is an English classic. It is
not altogether appropriate, because my Tray is just a baby terrier yet,
but we trust, he and I, that he will live to see a venerable age."

CHAPTER IX.

A WILFUL DOG WILL HAVE HIS WAY.

Dora and May walked out together regularly, a practice enforced by their
father as a provision for their health. To have Tray to form a third
person in their somewhat formal promenades certainly robbed them of
their formality, and introduced such an element of lively excitement
into them as to bear out Dora's comparison of their progresses
thenceforth to a succession of fox-hunts. For Tray was sti