"It's a pirate dog, Uncle Darcy. He's named Captain Kidd because he
buries his treasures."

In answer the old man's quavering voice rose in a song which he had
roared lustily many a time in his younger days, aboard many a gallant
vessel:

"Oh, my name is Captain Kidd,
And many wick-ud things I did,
And heaps of gold I hid,
As I sailed."

The way his voice slid down on the word wick-_ud_ made a queer
thrilly feeling run down the boy's back, and all of a sudden the day grew
wonderfully interesting, and this old seaport town one of the nicest
places he had ever been in. The singer stopped at the steps and Georgina,
disconcerted at finding the boy at such close range when she expected to
see him far above her, got no further in her introduction to Captain Kidd
than "Here he------"

But the old man needed no introduction. He had only to speak to the dog
to set every inch of him quivering in affectionate response. "Here's a
friend worth having," the raggedy tail seemed to signal in a wig-wag code
of its own.

Then the wrinkled hand went from the dog's head to the boy's shoulder
with the same kind of an affectionate pat. "What's _your_ name,
son?"

"Richard Morland."