question--certainly not of so formidable a person as the Snimmy's
wife. But she didn't think. She just asked, eagerly,

"Is he a--a sort of--dog?"

"A sort of _dog_?" echoed the Snimmy's wife, in the most outraged
italics.

"A--kind of--puppy?"

"A kind of--PUPPY?" said the Snimmy's wife, in perfectly withering
small capitals. Then she said, in the loftiest large capitals Sara had
ever seen,

"HIS MOTHER WAS A SNAIL--SHE HELD THE WORLD'S RECORD FOR SLOWNESS. AND
HIS FATHER WAS A PEDIGREED NOODLE."

Sara looked at him in awe; now she understood the cap, and the prongs,
and the extreme length. But, in spite of the Snimmy's wife's indignant
mood, she had to ask one more question.

"But you said he was your child," was the way she put it.

"I didn't," retorted the Snimmy's wife, with undisguised contempt. "I
said he was the only child we have. We have him, haven't we?" And with
that she sat down with her back to Sara on her own toadstool, and
curled her long white tail around the base with quite unnecessary
tightness. Her nose was not quite so debilitating as the Snimmy's;
still, it nearly stuck into the doorknob as she hemmed.