Mr. Tillytuck’s body was almost as square as his face and was encased in a faded and rather ragged old gray sweater, revealing glimpses of a red flannel shirt which brought a sudden peculiar gleam into Judy’s eyes. It was so exactly the shade she would be wanting for the red rosebuds in the rug she meant to hook coming on spring.

“If ye’ve no objection to the pipe have ye any to the dog?” went on Mr. Tillytuck. “If ye haven’t maybe ye wouldn’t mind him lying down in that corner over there.”

Judy decided that it was time she asserted herself. After all, this was her kitchen, not Mister Tillytuck’s.

“Oh, oh, and is it a well-behaved dog he is, Mister Tillytuck, I’m asking ye.”

“He is,” replied Tillytuck solemnly. “But he’s been an unfortunate kind of dog…born to ill-luck as the sparks fly upward. Ye may not believe me, Miss…Miss…”

“Plum,” said Judy shortly.

“Miss Plum, that dog has had a hard life of it. He’s had mange and distemper once each and worms continual. He got run over by a truck last summer and poisoned by strychnine the summer before that.”

“He must have as many lives as a cat,” giggled Cuddles.

“He’s in good health now,” assured Mr. Tillytuck. “He’s a bit lame from cutting his foot with a sliver of broken glass last week but he’ll soon be over it. And he throws a fit once in a while…epileptic. Foams at the mouth. Staggers. Falls. In ten minutes gets up and trots away as good as new. So ye need never be worrying about him if ye see him take one. He’s really a broth of a dog, only kind of sensitive, and fine with the cows. I have a great respect for dogs…always touch my cap when I meet one.”

“What is his name?” asked Pat.

“I call him just Dog,” responded Mr. Tillytuck. And Just Dog he remained during his entire sojourn at Silver Bush.

“A bit too glib wid yer tongue, Mister Tillytuck,” thought Judy. But she only said,

“And what may yer mind be in regard to cats?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Tillytuck, who seemed quite contented with a whiff of his pipe between speeches, “I have a feeling for cats, Miss Plum. When I wandered in here the other morning I thought I’d like the people here because there was a cat on the windowsill. It’s a kind of instink with me. So thinks I to myself, ‘This place has got a flavor. I could do with a job here.’ And how right I was!”

“Where might your last place be?”