“Who’s my little doggy, who’s my little doggy? Yes you are, yes you are!”
“Mrs Rafaat, thrilled though I am that we’ve found your pet again—”
“Good boy, good boy! Yes, you’re so good, aren’t you? Yes, you’re so good!”
“—if we could perhaps take this opportunity to head for the nearest public transport…”
“Fetch boy, fetch! That’s it, that’s it! Good boy! Mummy’s got a treaty-weaty for you.”
If Matthew Swift was unnerved by the sight of an old woman in a sari lovingly stroking behind the ears of an eight-foot killing machine, he did his best not to show it. His manful stride up to the flanks of Dog may have turned, at the last moment, to a cautious creep, but he felt that his cry of “Now, Mrs Rafaat, please, there are people depending on us!” had an undeniably heroic ring.
“I’m sorry, Mr Swift,” she sighed. “It’s just I did miss my little did-dums.”
“And you can have all the time in the world with him,” replied the sorcerer, “just as soon as we get to Canada Water.”
“But Mr Swift! Will they let my little puppy on the train?”
“Tell you what. Just this once let’s get a cab.”