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"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. " "But I've got to go!" insisted Rollo, in perfectly understandable dog-talk. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce.
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