he had wanted to seek adventure on the street. Instead, there he was in the backyard with no possibility of getting out, at least so everyone thought.
The backyard had high board fences on three sides of it, and on the fourth side, the front side, wire fencing joined up with the board fences. Currant bushes grew along the wire fence and they were spiky and cold-looking in the November air. The wire fence and the board fences were all in good condition. There were no loose boards or holes, and Ginger could not get out. Yet Ginger had gotten out, and how? That was what everybody wanted to know.
Jerry was the one who made the discovery. When dinner at last was over, he had gone out to play with his lonesome dog. But there was no dog, lonesome or otherwise. He was gone. It would be impossible to explain why Jerry had such a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It seemed to him that the emptiness in the backyard was a long-time emptiness, that Ginger had been gone a long long while.
Someone must have let Ginger back into the house without my knowing it,
he thought.
But no one had. Still, perhaps he had got in somehow, on someone's heels without being noticed, perhaps when Mama went out for the celery. Once he was in, perhaps Gracie-the-cat had unlatched the front door for him in her unusual-for-a-cat manner. But Gracie-the-cat was innocently and lan
guorously sprawled on the mantel. The latch was tightly fastened on the front door. No one had let Ginger in or out of any door except Jerry when he let him out the back one into the backyard. And the backyard was where he still should be, safe and sound.
It was unbelievable that Ginger was not out there somewhere and Jerry went to the back door and whistled. Nothing but that empty silence answered. Jerry then toured the house, the bedrooms, the parlor, even Papa's study in the tower, but Ginger most certainly was not at home.
Rachel was helping Mama and Gramma with the dishes and there were mountains of these. It looked as though dishwashing would last a week. Uncle Bennie was curled up asleep on the couch in the living room, having had too much to eat. "Take a little nap. Take a little nap," Gramma had urged him. And this time Uncle Bennie had not refused. Grampa and Papa were in the little parlor sitting on the scratchy horsehair furniture, talking in low tones in order not to wake up Uncle Bennie. No one was as excited as Jerry about the disappearance of Ginger except Rachel.
"Oh, he probably got out of the yard somehow and is off chasing cats," Mama said reassuringly.
It might be true, Jerry thought. Nobody in Cranbury had such a smart puppy as he had—a puppy that could trail a boy through the streets and climb up the fire escape at school and find Jerry in his own room, Room Nine, at school, and bring his pencil to him that he had lost somewhere along the way. It would not be too surprising for a dog such as that to find a way to get out of the backyard. Perhaps he had dug a hole under the fence and perhaps he was somewhere in the neighborhood. Later Jerry would examine all the fences and stop up whatever hole he might have dug.
So Jerry went out the front door and down the street a ways and he whistled for Ginger, seven short whistles with an uptilt on the last whistle, the way he always did, and then he listened. No little brown-and-white dog came tearing like dynamite. Nowhere in the neighborhood was there the sound of Ginger's special cat and chicken barking. The silence of Thanksgiving Day, with everyone sitting around with stomachs full and eyes heavy, was all the answer there was to Jerry's whistling.
Except for that time when Ginger had trailed Jerry to school, so far as anyone knew, Ginger had never left their block before. His going away like this was puzzling and it was frightening. Jerry ran
next door to ask Dick Badger if he had seen his dog, but no one answered the bell and then he remembered that Dick's family was spending the day with
The backyard had high board fences on three sides of it, and on the fourth side, the front side, wire fencing joined up with the board fences. Currant bushes grew along the wire fence and they were spiky and cold-looking in the November air. The wire fence and the board fences were all in good condition. There were no loose boards or holes, and Ginger could not get out. Yet Ginger had gotten out, and how? That was what everybody wanted to know.
Jerry was the one who made the discovery. When dinner at last was over, he had gone out to play with his lonesome dog. But there was no dog, lonesome or otherwise. He was gone. It would be impossible to explain why Jerry had such a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It seemed to him that the emptiness in the backyard was a long-time emptiness, that Ginger had been gone a long long while.
Someone must have let Ginger back into the house without my knowing it,
he thought.
But no one had. Still, perhaps he had got in somehow, on someone's heels without being noticed, perhaps when Mama went out for the celery. Once he was in, perhaps Gracie-the-cat had unlatched the front door for him in her unusual-for-a-cat manner. But Gracie-the-cat was innocently and lan
guorously sprawled on the mantel. The latch was tightly fastened on the front door. No one had let Ginger in or out of any door except Jerry when he let him out the back one into the backyard. And the backyard was where he still should be, safe and sound.
It was unbelievable that Ginger was not out there somewhere and Jerry went to the back door and whistled. Nothing but that empty silence answered. Jerry then toured the house, the bedrooms, the parlor, even Papa's study in the tower, but Ginger most certainly was not at home.
Rachel was helping Mama and Gramma with the dishes and there were mountains of these. It looked as though dishwashing would last a week. Uncle Bennie was curled up asleep on the couch in the living room, having had too much to eat. "Take a little nap. Take a little nap," Gramma had urged him. And this time Uncle Bennie had not refused. Grampa and Papa were in the little parlor sitting on the scratchy horsehair furniture, talking in low tones in order not to wake up Uncle Bennie. No one was as excited as Jerry about the disappearance of Ginger except Rachel.
"Oh, he probably got out of the yard somehow and is off chasing cats," Mama said reassuringly.
It might be true, Jerry thought. Nobody in Cranbury had such a smart puppy as he had—a puppy that could trail a boy through the streets and climb up the fire escape at school and find Jerry in his own room, Room Nine, at school, and bring his pencil to him that he had lost somewhere along the way. It would not be too surprising for a dog such as that to find a way to get out of the backyard. Perhaps he had dug a hole under the fence and perhaps he was somewhere in the neighborhood. Later Jerry would examine all the fences and stop up whatever hole he might have dug.
So Jerry went out the front door and down the street a ways and he whistled for Ginger, seven short whistles with an uptilt on the last whistle, the way he always did, and then he listened. No little brown-and-white dog came tearing like dynamite. Nowhere in the neighborhood was there the sound of Ginger's special cat and chicken barking. The silence of Thanksgiving Day, with everyone sitting around with stomachs full and eyes heavy, was all the answer there was to Jerry's whistling.
Except for that time when Ginger had trailed Jerry to school, so far as anyone knew, Ginger had never left their block before. His going away like this was puzzling and it was frightening. Jerry ran
next door to ask Dick Badger if he had seen his dog, but no one answered the bell and then he remembered that Dick's family was spending the day with
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