He had begun to eliminate the
superfluous words, when Tinker, with Blazer, his bull-terrier, came
suddenly up to him from behind, and bade him good-morning.
Tinker had breakfasted some three hours earlier, probably in the hotel
kitchen, for, as was his invariable custom, he was on the best of terms
with the servants; and for all that he had spent the intervening hours
on the uncovered slimy rocks, was in his usual state of spotless
cleanliness. He is the one living boy to whom dirt does not cling.
"How have you been amusing yourself?" said his father, his stern face
lighting up with a delightful smile.
"I'm still teaching Blazer to be a bloodhound. He's slow--very slow."
Blazer cocked an apologetic ear and sniffed.
"It must be tiring work."
"Yes," said Tinker sadly, and his eyes wandered slowly along the shore.
Sir Tancred flipped the ash off his cigar.
"Those Biggleswades are beasts!" Tinker broke out suddenly when his
eyes fell on them. "They treat that little girl of theirs shamefully!
When I went to bed last night she was crying again. She always is. I
don't believe she's their little girl at all. I believe they've stolen
her."
"The deuce!" cried Sir Tancred, and catching up his _Daily Telegraph_,
he read again the Marmalade Millionaire's advertisement.
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