Presently he saw the empty waggons drawn up
in the side alley, and with fresh hope in his heart he hurried along.
And in the last in the row "James Cross" was painted and, from
somewhere within, there came a low, unhappy whine.
Instantly Dick was at the door calling "Pat!" and whistling the
familiar call, and this was answered by a storm of eager muffled
barking. The locked door was shaken in vain, and there was no possible
way of rescue there.
But Dick rushed back to the middle of the Fair, and going at once to
the friendly policeman cried, "I've found him! I've found him! He's
locked up in their waggon down that side street. Oh, please make them
come and let him out."
"Is this true?" said the officer sternly to the showman, who had heard
every word. "Have you got his dog?"
"'Tisn't his, it's mine. The young rascal stole him from me and now
wants to make out it's his own."
"But you said just now you hadn't got another dog. When did he steal
it?"
"This morning, and I got him back, of course."
"I didn't steal it, sir," cried Dick indignantly. "It's my very own.
Come and hear how he barks when I call him."
"Come and let him out at once," said the officer, "and we'll soon
settle the ownership."
"Can't leave the show," muttered the man angrily.
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