Soon, sooner than usual, Mr.Tosswill and his three sons came into the drawing-room, and they were all talking and laughing together happily when a most unlucky, and untoward, accident happened! Timmy's dog, Flick, having somehow escaped from the stable, suddenly ran in from the dark garden, straight through the window opposite the sofa round which the whole of the party was now gathered together.

When about a yard from Mrs.Crofton, he stopped dead, and emitted a series of short, wild howls, while his hair bristled and stood on end, and his eyes flamed blood red.
They were all so surprised--so extremely taken aback by Flick's behaviour--that no one moved.

Then Mrs.Crofton gave a kind of gasp, and covering her face with her hands, cowered back in the corner of the sofa.
Timmy jumped up from the stool where he had been sitting, and as he did so, his mother called out affrightedly: "Don't go near Flick, Timmy--he looks mad!" But Timmy was no coward, and Flick was one of the few living things he loved in the world.

He threw himself on the floor beside his dog.
"Flick," he said warningly, "what's the matter, old chap?
Has anything hurt you ?" As he spoke he put out his skinny little arms, and Flick, though still shivering and growling, began to calm down.
The little boy waited a moment, Flick panting convulsively in his arms, then he gathered the dog to him, and, getting up from the floor, walked quickly through the open window into the garden.
For a moment no one stirred--and then Mr.Tosswill, who had been sitting rather apart from the rest of the party, got up and shut the window.
"What a curious thing," he said musingly.

"I have always regarded Flick as one of the best tempered of dogs.