“No, miss, that I certainly don’t.” She stooped, and looked down at the spaniel’s injured side⁠—brightened suddenly with the irradiation of a new idea⁠—and pointing to the wound with a chuckle of satisfaction, said, “That’s Baxter’s doings, that is.”

I was so exasperated that I could have boxed her ears. “Baxter?” I said. “Who is the brute you call Baxter?”

The girl grinned again more cheerfully than ever. “Bless you, miss! Baxter’s the keeper, and when he finds strange dogs hunting about, he takes and shoots ’em. It’s keeper’s dooty, miss. I think that dog will die. Here’s where he’s been shot, ain’t it? That’s Baxter’s doings, that is. Baxter’s doings, miss, and Baxter’s dooty.”