"Oh, so he belongs to you!" continued the P.O. in a threatening voice.
"No, sir," I faltered; "you see, it isn't that way at all. I belong to
Mr. Fogerty."
"Who in--who in--who is Mr. Fogerty?" shouted the P.O. "And how
in--how in--how did _he_ happen to get into the conversation?"
"Why, this is Mr. Fogerty," I replied; "this dog here, sitting on my
foot."
"Oh, is that so?" jeered the P.O., a man noted for his quick retorts.
"Well, you take your silly looking dog away from here and secure him
in some safe place. He ain't no fit associate for our camp dogs. And,
furthermore," he added, "the next time Mr. Fogerty attempts to bite me
I'm going to put you on report--savez?"
Mr. Fogerty is almost as much of a comfort in camp as mother.
Well, that's another something else again and has nothing to do with
my swim and approximate drowning at City Island. Swimming has always
been one of my strong points, and I have taken in the past no little
pride in my appearance, not only in a bathing outfit, but also in the
water. However, the suit they provided me with on this occasion did
not show me up in a very alluring light. It was quite large and
evidently built according to a model of the early Victorian Era.
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