Georgie hated dogs at any time, though he had never hated one so much
as Tipsipoozie, and the problems of life became more complicated than
ever. Certainly he was not going to drive back with Tipsipoozie in his
cab, and it became necessary to hire another for that abominable hound
and the rest of the luggage. And what on earth was to happen when he
arrived home, if Tipsipoozie did not drop his fun and become serious?
Foljambe, it is true, liked dogs, so perhaps dogs liked her ... "But it
is most tarsome of Hermy!" thought Georgie bitterly. "I wonder what the
Guru would do." There ensued a very trying ten minutes, in which the
station-master, the porters, Georgie and Mrs Weston's maid all called
Tipsipoozie a good dog as he lay on the ground snapping promiscuously
at those who praised him. Eventually a valiant porter picked up the bag
of clubs, and by holding them out in front of him at the extreme length
of his arms, in the manner of a fishing rod, with Tipsipoozie on a
short chain at the other end of the bag, like a savage fish, cursing
and swearing, managed to propel him into the cab, and there was another
half-crown gone. Georgie thereupon got into his cab and sped homewards
in order to arrive there first, and consult with Foljambe. Foljambe
usually thought of something.

Foljambe came out at the noise of the arriving wheels and Georgie
explained the absence of his sisters and the advent of an atrocious
dog.

"He's very fierce," he said, "but he likes jam."

Foljambe gave that supreme smile which sometimes Georgie resented. Now
he hailed it, as if it was "an angel-face's smile."

"I'll see to him, sir," she said. "I've brought up your tea."