Transcriber’s Notes:

The cover image for eReaders was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

THE WANDERING DOG
MARSHALL SAUNDERS

I AM AN OPEN-FACED, WIRE-HAIRED FOX-TERRIER

“BOY”
THE WANDERING DOG

ADVENTURES OF A
FOX-TERRIER

BY
MARSHALL SAUNDERS

AUTHOR OF
Beautiful Joe, Etc.

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1916,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This story is dedicated to my fellow-members of

THE AMERICAN HUMANE ASSOCIATION,

which has its headquarters in Albany, New York—an association with which I have been connected for many years, and which is carrying on a noble work for children and animals.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

BOOK ONE: MY LIFE IN THE CITY

I claim that we dogs are better friends to men than men are to themselves.... You, doubting man, say “No.”

Well then, give me offhand and quickly, the name of a single friend of yours who never criticises you, who lives for you only, labors for you, fights for you, would die for you, and all as a matter of course, and without thought of reward.... I note you are silent.... Well, I can name you a million dogs who, if they loved you, would live, labor, fight and die for you cheerfully and bravely, and without knowing or caring whether they were doing anything unusual or singular, or at all out of the ordinary.

BOY, The Wandering Dog.

THE WANDERING DOG
BOOK ONE: MY LIFE IN THE CITY

CHAPTER I
I SEEK AND FIND A FRIEND

A few months ago, I came in the course of my wanderings, to the city of New York. My! My! how the big city has grown since I was here a few years ago.

I entered it by way of a ferry-boat from Jersey City. Then I scampered up past City Hall, the Hotel de Gink, and the Tombs to the Bowery.

Of course, the first thing was to make a friend. I chose a solemn-looking bulldog, sitting round the corner from a saloon whose huge, bulging window looked like a big eye staring down the street. The dog, who was brindle in colour, and had a tremendous head, sat tight up against the wall, and was keeping a wary eye out for something, I know not what.

“Good afternoon,” I said politely, and not going too close to him.

“How d’ye do,” he said morosely. Then he looked up at the elevated.

That’s the worst of a big city. No dog that’s worth knowing cares a rap about you, unless you force yourself on his attention.

“Oh! Come off the L,” I said brusquely.

You see, I recognised at once, that he was a bluff, matter-of-fact dog who would not appreciate frills.

He did come off, and gave me a glance.

“You’re no fairy,” he said hoarsely.

“No, and I’m no crazy cur, either,” I replied. “If I were, you New York dogs would fall all over each other to entertain me. You’ve got to be either a beauty, a crank or a millionaire, to get on in this city.”

“How did you like Virginia?” he asked, with a twist of his under-jaw.

I’m a pretty self-possessed dog, but I could not help starting a bit. “How did you know I have been in Virginia?” I asked sharply.

He gave a snicker. “I know you’re from the South, for you’re shivering on this mild day, and Virginia is the nearest state south that has the exact shade of that lovely red mud sticking to your hind leg.”

“I’m not a Southern dog,” I said hastily.

“You needn’t go out of your way to get hot telling me that,” he retorted. “You haven’t the slick repose of manner of the Southern dog.”

“Well, I’m glad I’ve struck a four-legged Sherlock Holmes,” I remarked good-naturedly. “You’re just the fellow to tell me where to go to get a square meal.”

“Why don’t you trot uptown for your first feed?” he asked with a relaxing of his sour expression, for he liked being compared to the famous detective.

I smiled. There was no need to say anything, yet I said it. “Uptown’s fine, after you have an introduction. Downtown doesn’t ask so many questions.”

“Ha! Ha!” he laughed gruffly. “I like you. Come right in—I’ll share bones and tit-bits with you for a night. Follow me,” and he shuffled round the corner toward the family entrance of the saloon. There he pushed his flat skull against a door in the wall, and entered a yard about as big as a pocket handkerchief.

“Not many yards in the Bowery now,” he said hoarsely. “Happened to be a fire next door that burnt a building to the ground, and fencing in the vacant lot, gives us a place to stretch our legs.”

“Good gracious!” I said. “The city is getting darker and darker.”

“Yes,” he replied gloomily, “what with burrowing for the subways, and sky-rocketing for the elevateds, and tunnelling for the tubes, the city is getting to be as black as——”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I know—it’s a habitation not mentioned in polite dog circles.”

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked in his choked voice. “If you’re too good for your company, get out.”

“I’m not,” I said hurriedly. “I like you. You’re a regular sport.”

“I used to be,” he said, settling down on the straw with a groan, “but my joints—the rheumatiz has got me. I’m not like I used to be—Come on now, reel off your life yarn. I’ve got an hour to spare. What’s your name, and where were you born, and where are you going?”

“With your powers of observation, you ought to be able to answer all those questions for yourself,” I said demurely.

He looked me all over, with his fine dark eyes. “You haven’t got a name,” he said with a snort, “or rather you have many names. You’re a travelling dog. You were born anywhere, and you don’t know where you’re going.”

I burst into such a delighted yell of laughter that he told me to shut up, or some one might hear us.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked wonderingly. “And what’s the matter with all the dogs here? I never saw such a cowed looking set.”

“We’re listening for the cops,” he said angrily. “We’ve got a new health commissioner and he’s a——”

“Yes, yes,” I interjected hurriedly, “a dear fellow. He doesn’t understand dogs probably.”

“Understand them—he’s a fool. He says it’s the citizens first, if every dog has to go. He’s muzzled every one of us, even when led on a leash. He wants to make little old New York a dogless city.”

“I suppose it’s the old rabies scare,” I said.

“Sure—that’s it. A poor dog loses his master. He runs wild and howls. A crowd chases him, and he foams at the mouth. Then they kill him. Rabies!—rats!”

“Come, come,” I said, “we’re dogs of course, but let us look at the human point of view. There is such a disease.”

“Of course there is, but it’s as rare as a summer’s day in winter. You’ve as much chance of being struck by lightning, as of being bit by a mad dog.”

“Yet there are people killed by lightning,” I said.

He was grumbling on to himself. “The Lord made dogs—Man can’t improve ’em. He gave us our mouths free to chew grass and pick a little earth for stomach troubles. You muzzle a dog, and he gets sick and makes his master sick. The fool commissioner hurts the humans more than he helps them.”

“But he’s trying to wipe out the disease,” I said. “There isn’t much of it, and if the dogs are muzzled for a few years, it will be stamped out.”

“Yes, and we’ll have a dozen other worse diseases by that time. A muzzled dog is a menace to his master, I tell you. Let ’em supervise our health in some way. Let the government do as much for us as they do for pigs. Then we wouldn’t hear of rabies. The commissioner’s a fool—New York’s rotten anyway.”

I didn’t dare to disagree with him, for he probably would have nabbed me. “Well,” I said humbly, “I suppose we must let them come first.”

“Who come first?” he growled.

“Human beings—we’re second.”

“That’s all right,” he assented.

“Now for the sake of human beings,” I went on, “who are as closely packed together as they are in New York, there shouldn’t be many animals in with them.”

“Sure,” he said, “I’m with you there. High license to keep dogs down. They’re not happy themselves if they’re cramped.”

“But high license is against the poor man,” I said. “He could not afford to keep a dog for his children.”

“Let him go without,” said the bulldog.

“No, sir, not in these days of equality. How about having public playgrounds in crowded districts, with bird and animal pets, and a house with a caretaker to supervise the play of the children.”

“They have such playgrounds now,” he said.

“But, they haven’t any dogs, and cats and birds.”

“All right,” he said, “let ’em have ’em, if you can get the dough.”

“And furthermore,” I continued, “let the city give the superintendence of animals and birds to a person who understands them.”

The old dog was pleased now. “That’s right,” he said, “I’m with you there. Don’t boss a job you don’t understand.”

“From what you say,” I went on, “it sounds as if your commissioner was very hygienic, but he has got the bull by the tail instead of by the horns.”

The old dog roared with delight. This was something along his own line, and seeing him so good-natured, I was emboldened to say: “You spoke in quite a religious way just now, yet you keep a saloon.”

He turned on me quite fiercely. “Do you suppose there’s no religion in a saloon? I tell you there’s more good-nature and help-your-neighbourliness down here in the Bowery than there is up on Fifth Avenue. What told you to come down here for a free feed, hey?—You, a classy dog.”

“But is that religion?” I asked hesitatingly, for I didn’t want to ruffle the old fellow and lose my dinner.

“It’s the new theology,” he said more agreeably. “We don’t go to church, and sing hymns, and make roly-poly eyes, but we buck each other up. Why my mister sells the best of the Little Hell Gate Distillery stuff, yet if a fellow has too many drinks in him, he doesn’t get another one from us.”

“Well,” I said easily, “I try to be an up-to-date dog, and the latest theory is that drink takes strength away. First thing I noticed arriving here was the procession of saloons. First thing I noticed in the South was their absence. It had a kind of too-good-to-be-true look.”

“I see Russia gets on better without the sale of vodka,” said my new friend agreeably. “I guess we’d do just as well on the water-wagon, but you don’t want to be too quick in hopping on it. I often think that some of these fellows who come in here so dry and grabbing for their drinks, would be just as well off if they had a lot of good old hot coffee, the kind mother used to make; but you’d have to go slow with ’em, about putting the coffee-pot in the place of the bottle.”

“I never can understand,” I said, “why men don’t like grape-juice, and ginger ale, and beer, and all kinds of nice, cool, sloppy drinks better than fiery stuff, but that’s been tried and they hate it.”

A cunning gleam came in the old dog’s eyes. “Temperance folk don’t understand. They make their health places too clean and shiny, and a man in overalls don’t want to get in the eye of the public to take his drink and swap yarns with another pair of overalls. I’ll tell you what my mister’s doing, if you won’t let on to the dogs round here. They’re a tonguey bunch.”

“Certainly not,” I replied.

The old dog thrust his head out of his kennel, to see if any one was listening, then he went on. “It’s this way. Mister goes up town or down town to some saloon—say Jones’. Says he, ‘How much do you clean up per annum, Jones?’ Jones says, ‘A thousand dollars.’ Mister asks, ‘How much will you sell for?’ Jones tells him. Mister either buys him out, or goes in as a partner. Same old business goes on, same old stand, same old boss. Coffee runs in, liquor runs out, and before Jones’ pack know where they are, naughty drinks are out, and pious ones are in—and mister makes more dough.”

“Good thought,” I exclaimed. “I suppose if he’d shut up the old place, and put up a temperance sign at first, the men would have run like deer.”

“Sure,” said the old dog, “drive folks, and they run from you; coax ’em, and they feed out of your hand.”

“Is your master going to make this saloon into a good one?” I asked curiously.

“Mebbe, in time. This gives him his title of saloon-keeper.”

“Your master must be a queer man,” I said. “I’d like to see him.”

“You never saw his match,” chuckled the old dog. “He could make money out of the cobble stones.”

“Is he rich?” I enquired.

“I should smile.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m glad to hear he’s a semi-philanthropist.”

“Say—just spell that word, will you?” said my friend with mock politeness. I spelt it for him, then he said, “Were you ever a preacher’s dog?”

“Yes,” I said, “and he was a fine fellow.”

“Were you ever a saloon-keeper’s dog?” he went on with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Yes,” I said with a laugh, for I rejoiced to see how keen he was.

Before I left the South, I had to associate with coloured dogs for a time, and while they were kindness itself, they were not quick-witted like the white dogs.

“I guess you were an actor’s dog too, weren’t you?” continued old Gringo, for I had seen his name over his kennel.

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“And a grocer’s dog, and a milkman’s dog, and a doctor’s dog, and a postman’s dog, and a thousand ladies’ dog, and in short you’re a very——”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, “I’ve boxed the compass, as far as owners go.”

He burst into a hoarse laugh. “I guess the human race ain’t got any string on you.”

“Well,” I said modestly, “I know considerable about men and women.”

“And children?” he said.

“No,” I returned. “It isn’t so easy to follow them. They’re so clever, so very much more unexpectedly clever than the grown-ups.”

“It’s a doll-fashion now to kow-tow to young ones,” he said crossly. “I don’t like ’em myself, except a few.”

I suppressed a yawn. I was powerfully hungry, and so far, not a word had been said about dinner.

Suddenly my new friend trembled. “Down on your knees,” he whispered. “Waller in the straw. Keep cool——” then he filled up the kennel door with the stout, muscular breadth of his body.

CHAPTER II
I LOSE MY FRIEND

“Here, dog-catcher,” shrilled an impish young voice. “Here’s the kennel where the strange dog ran in. I saw him. He hadn’t a collar on.”

I scarcely dared breathe. Some Bowery imp had seen me, and reported me to the police.

“Gringo,” said an unusually resonant man’s voice, “come out. We’re going to raid your kennel.”

Gringo told me afterward he gave his master a wink. Anyway, when the deep voice sounded again, it was to a different tune.

“Officer,” it said carelessly, “do you think a strange dog would get by that face?”

“No I don’t,” said a policeman’s voice. “Run home, young one, and when you dream again, don’t call me.”

“What are you givin’ me?” asked the imp’s voice, and I knew by the twang it was a girl imp. “Gringo’s foolin’ you. He’s the soft dog in the heart spot. See me ram my fist down his throat.”

Gringo told me afterward it was as good as a play to see the cop’s face when impie ran her thin young arm in between his rat-trap jaws. Of course he had to bite her gently. There was nothing else to do.

The young one in a rage, smashed him in the face. “There’s one for you, you old bluffer. You never bit me before. Keep your old dog—I don’t care, but I’m on to him when he makes his exit.”

Gringo was shaking with laughter, when they all went away. “There’s a long feather in your cap,” he said.

“A feather I could have done without,” I replied ruefully. “It means I must skedaddle.”

“Not without your dinner,” he said kindly, and he started to shuffle toward the back door of the red brick house. “Bark twice, if the angel re-appears,” he said over his shoulder.

Thank fortune she did not, and soon Gringo returned, carrying his food dish between his huge jaws. He set the dish in front of the kennel.

“I often feed here,” he said under his breath. “Take what I chuck you. The angel has her eye at a crack in the fence.”

As he ate, he carelessly tossed into the kennel, toast scraps soaked in nice chicken gravy, and some delicious steak bones with the tenderest part of the meat clinging to them. What a good dinner I had! But I was nearly choked with thirst.

I told him about my parched throat, when he finished his dinner, and came into the kennel.

“You’ll have to wait,” he said, “till the angel folds her wings. She’s the cleverest young one on the Bowery. Usually I like her, but to-night I wish she was in——”

“Yes, yes,” I said, “in bed. Well, she’ll have to go soon.”

“Poor kid. She has no mother,” said the old dog, “and her aunt spoils her.”

That young one stayed at the fence crack for exactly one hour. She was determined to prove she was right. Before she went away, she called viciously, “I’ve got to beat it, Gringo, so tell your friend to take a starlight saunter to some other place in this burg. I’m goin’ to make this place too hot to hold him to-morrow.”

He said nothing, and I observed irritably, “Usually girls like dogs.”

“She’s wild for them,” observed Gringo. “Don’t you catch on? She’s mad because she didn’t get her own way, and because I went back on her.”

“But why did she report me, in the first place?” I asked.

“Because she was hanging round here, hoping to get a glimpse of you. I gave her a black look when she came too near, and it crossed her temper. She was bound to get even with me. I should have let her see you. Then she’d have helped you. She treats dogs like Christians.”

“Pagans for me then,” I said. “I think I’ll be going.”

“[You must have a drink first,” said Gringo hospitably]. “Follow me.”

He led the way to the saloon—to the tub where they washed the glasses. The water was rather fiery, but I didn’t care, for I was exceedingly thirsty. He invited me to stay till later, but I said, “No.” I wanted to get away, while there were still plenty of people in the streets.

“YOU MUST HAVE A DRINK FIRST,” SAID GRINGO HOSPITABLY

“You’re leaner than I am, you can slip between folks,” he said. “I never could hide my bulk. Still you’re white—that’s dead against you. How do you get over that in your travels?”

“It’s a great handicap,” I replied, “except when I’m hiding against something light. But it’s wonderful how one can overcome disadvantages.”

“You’re smart,” he said with a snort. “I guess you’d get on anyway. Call again, some time.”

I thanked him warmly for his hospitality, scurried down the side street, then round by another winding one to the Bowery! Oh! those narrow streets! Rich people have the ugly things at the backs of their houses. These poor people had the fire-escapes and clothes lines in front. No room at the back. Poor wretches—they even hadn’t air enough. I could smell the foulness of it. No wonder they get tuberculosis of the brain.

I dashed back to the Bowery which was airy and comfortable compared with these side streets. Then I mingled with the crowd on the sidewalk.

For weeks I had been living in a small town, and this seemed like old times, for I am a city dog born and bred. I love the fields and the forests for a time, but for week in and week out, give me the pavements and lots of excitement.

“In town let me live then,

In town let me die.

For in truth I can’t bear the country, not I.

If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,

Oh! give me the sweet, shady side of Pall Mall.”

An English greyhound taught me that, one summer when I was in London, with a dearly loved mistress who afterward married a man who hated dogs.

Well, to come back to the Bowery. It was a fine night, and everybody was out but the cripples. Oh, what a forest of little feet and big feet, and pretty feet and ugly feet, and good feet and wicked feet. I trotted among them, moralising just as hard as I could.

Feet have as much character as faces. Show me a pair of shoes with the ankles in them, and I’ll tell you what kind of a headpiece crowns the structure.

For a while, I ran beside a nice little pair of stout, black, walking shoes. They had been patched, but the blacking on them shone over the patch. There were neat, darned stockings in the shoes, above them the trim circle of a serge skirt, then, on account of the crowd, I could see no more. But I knew a tidy young girl walked in those shoes, and her brother must have approved of her, for if a boy goes walking with his sister at night, she must be a pretty nice girl. They were going to a moving picture show, and were debating what they should buy for their sick mother with the ten cents that would be left. Finally they decided on grape fruit.

The boy had stocky feet encased in heavy boots that had not been bought this side of the Atlantic. I listened to the rich brogue of the boots, and found it was Irish. When the great yellow and red mouth of a moving picture palace swallowed up shoes and owners, I sidled up to another pair in the throng.

Oh! what a little witch this girl was—dirty, light-topped, French-heeled shoes, wiggly, frayed skirt edge, silly walk—she kept lopping over against her partner, a lad who was parading the damp streets in thin-soled, shoddy shoes about as substantial as paper. I couldn’t stand their idiotic talk. I left them, paddled up to Forty-second Street, and ran across it to Broadway.

I noted that many more electric lights have been put up since I was here last. The Great White Way has more than a thousand eyes now, and the pavements were rather lighter than I liked them.

I lifted my paws daintily, feeling as if I were walking on mirrors. However, the mirrors were mostly obscured—what crowds of hurrying, restless human beings surging to and fro, meeting, clashing, avoiding, closing, opening—just like waves of the sea.

I had no need to keep out of sight of the policemen here. They were fully occupied with the human waves which sometimes leaped over and by them, in spite of the warning hand that would keep them from being dashed to pieces by the street traffic.

I paused to take breath round the corner of a street.

“Say, those policemen have a hard time,” I remarked to a black cat who had come out to take the air, and was blotted against a dark spot in a wall. She wasn’t a bit afraid of me.

“Everybody has a hard time in New York,” she said gloomily, “and if one human goes under the wheels, the rest show their teeth at the cop.”

“That’s mean,” I observed.

“Everything’s mean here,” she said. “It’s a hideous place for cats.”

“I didn’t know there were any cats on Broadway,” I said.

“There aren’t many,” she replied. “I come from Sixth Avenue,” and she gave a backward tilt to her head.

I sat and panted, and she went on bitterly, “You dogs don’t know what life is for us cats. You are led out for exercise, and you get it, even if your head is in a muzzle. They take you to the parks. If we crawl out, we can’t get beyond the curbstone. Just think of life without the touch of earth and grass to your paws. Everything paved and stony. I wish I was dead.”

“Some cats go on the roofs,” I said. “I’ve seen them.”

“A roof is glary and there’s no earth there,” she said, “and no one to play with. Cats shouldn’t be allowed in big cities. Look at my face—all broke out with mange.”

“Do you get enough to eat?” I enquired.

“Too much,” she said gloomily. “I belong to an eating-house. I’m supposed to catch mice, but I don’t. I just dream.”

“What do you dream about?” I asked.

Her face grew quite handsome. “I dream of a little cottage with a garden and a kind old woman.”

“Are you a stolen cat?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said miserably. “I come from Mount Vernon way. These folks here were automobiling a few weeks ago, and wanting a cat, stole me.”

“Why don’t you run home?” I asked.

“All that way—up toward Harlem and the Bronx—I’m scared.”

“Look here,” I said, “tell me your address. Maybe some day I can do something for you.”

“The Lady Gay eating-house,” she said, “but there’s precious little gaiety about it.”

“Cheer up,” I said, “I haven’t a home myself, and I’ve had lots of trouble, and I’m going to have more, but I never give up.”

“Where do you live?” she asked curiously.

I began to laugh. “I wish I knew. I’m looking for a home.”

“You’re quite a nobby dog,” she said looking me over. “I suppose our eating-house wouldn’t suit you.”

“Now mind,” I said warningly, “I’m not stuck-up. I love all kinds of people, but for choice give me the rich. They’re so clean, and have so many comforts.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said bitterly. “I wish I had your pluck. I’d like to go home-seeking too.”

“Come along,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll take you.”

She shrank back against the wall, till she looked like a pancake, and drew in her breath. “I’d never dare.”

“If you never dare, you never accomplish anything,” I said.

“But even if I dared,” she said persistently, “how could a cat get through these crowded streets, away up to Mount Vernon?”

“Oh! I don’t know,” I said, “but in your case, I’d do something. There’s always a way out of trouble.”

“Well now, just suppose you’re a cat, and in my place, what would you do?”

“Do those people who stole you, ever motor back in that same direction?”

“Often—it makes me crazy to hear them talk about the lovely times they have spinning along from village to village, and town to town.”

“Why don’t you sneak into the automobile some day when they’re going out, and hide till they get somewhere near your old home. They’d be sure to go in somewhere for a drink, then you could steal out, and make a bolt for your old woman and the cottage.”

“There’s no place to hide in the car,” she said. “They’d discover me.”

“Well then, start out some night, and take the journey in relays. A strong young cat could run miles in a night. By morning, you’d be away from the crowded district.”

“But where would I get my breakfast?” she asked.

“Oh fudge!” I replied. “I see you’re one of those cautious cats that want every step of the way checked out. You’ve got to rely a little on your own initiative, to get on in this world.”

She showed some temper at this, and said snappishly, “I can’t change myself. I’m made timid.”

“Then you’ve got to trust to luck or to a friend.”

“Will you help me?” she said pitifully.

She was a perfect goose of a cat, still I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. “I’ll give you some advice,” I said. “Stop eating meat, and take more exercise. You’re too young a cat to have mange.”

“I do take exercise,” she said. “I come here every night, and watch the folks.”

“Do you call that exercise?” I said disdainfully. “Why, that’s nothing. You should run back and forth for hours. Come in here through this door into this courtyard. I’ll show you how.”

My paws were beginning to get pretty sore by this time, for I had run far that day. However, I notice I always have bad luck, if I don’t stop to help some lame dog or cat over a stile. So I leaped and gambolled round that dark courtyard, and made her do likewise, till her lugubriousness had all faded away.

“I declare I feel like ten cats all rolled in one,” she said holding her head up, and mewing gratefully.

“Now you just come here every night and do this,” I said, “and cut the meat out of your bill-of-fare. Hope on, and if you can’t do anything for yourself, and if I get a good billet, I’ll do something for you.”

“Oh! what will you do?” she mewed anxiously, as she followed me back to Broadway.

“How can I tell, my friend,” I replied. “I’m a dog that acts on impulse. Good-bye, and good luck to you.”

“So long,” she said sweetly. “You’ve brought me hope and cheer. Oh! do come soon again.”

I laughed, and tossed my head as I left her. Who could tell when we should meet again? “You spruce up, and do something for yourself,” I called back. “You’re the best friend you’ve got. Remember that.”

I travelled up Broadway for a while, in a brown study. What a pity that so many of us like the city. The country is certainly better for us. Why didn’t I stay in lovely old Virginia?

Ah! why didn’t I? And I snickered to myself, as I dashed out into the street for a run. We like crowds, and music, and excitement. We like to be pushed, and hurried, and worried; and have funny things and adventurous things, and dreadful things happen. There’s nothing in the world that some human beings and some dogs hate as much as being bored, and that’s what takes us to the cities, and keeps us there till we’re exhausted, and go to the country to recuperate.

But wouldn’t it be possible to have the country made more attractive, I wondered. I’ve heard human beings talk about good roads, and more telephones, and theatres, and moving pictures and churches open all the time, like some of these New York churches where you can go in and rest. More city in the country and more country in the city—that would suit everybody.

I opened my eyes wide when I got to Seventy-second Street. Why, I thought I was down town. How the traffic has moved up!

Broadway got quieter, and cleaner, and broader, as I ran like a fox along the wide pavement. Here was more danger of being seen by a policeman. Two did see me, and one gave chase and threw his club; but I laughed between my paws, and ran on. Let him catch me if he could.

Old Broadway looked fine. There are huge apartment houses where there used to be nothing at all, or else contingents of fair-sized houses squatting along the way, waiting for something to turn up. Now these sky-scraping apartment houses have come in battalions, rearing their lofty heads with their rob-my-neighbour air. There’s something powerfully mean about them, in spite of their good looks. The health commissioner had better get after them, for they steal air and light from all the little houses, and do more harm than we dogs do.

At last I turned toward Riverside Drive. Ah! here was something I liked best of all—plenty of air and light, and the grand old Hudson as sparkling and handsome as ever. I had to jump up on one of the iron seats to look at it, on account of the stone wall. I think a city river, flowing smoothly between houses full of pleasure or trouble, and flashing back their myriad lights, is one of the most soothing sights in the world.

I love the Hudson, and the Thames, and the Seine and many other rivers, and next to them I love the bays, but they are mostly too big to love. It’s the little things that creep next us.

Well, the Hudson looked all right outside, but I hear the fishes are giving it an awful name inside. In fact, no respectable fish comes now within miles of New York.

Riverside Drive is grand with its fine houses, and its breadth and open park spaces. I began to sing a little song to myself as I ran past the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ monument, “Who’ll take poor doggie in for the night?”

I had struck the regular dog and baby district by this time. Both kinds of pets flourish on Riverside Drive. The babies had all gone to bed, but lots of little boy and girl dogs were taking the air. The most of them were led by maids or men-servants, and a few by their fond owners. Here and there one scampered about, trying to look gay and careless in spite of his sobering muzzle, which made me think of Gringo and his health commissioner.

I often think what a lot of trouble human beings take for us dogs. I’ve seen men and women yawning with fatigue, exercising their dogs at night. They know we love them—that is, some of them do. There’s a powerful lot of dog affection wasted on owners who don’t understand dogs, and never take them out with them. Upon my word, my heart has ached to see the pitiful, beseeching glances some dogs give their masters and mistresses, as if saying, “Do like us a little—we just adore you.”

A sudden thought came to me, as I stared at the various dogs disporting themselves on the Drive. I must get a collar off one of them. I fixed my eye on a young but horribly bloated Boston terrier with a white face who was wearing a collar too large for him. He hadn’t any neck worth speaking of. Now, [I am an open-faced, wire-haired fox terrier], and my neck was not nearly as large as this bloated fellow’s. I stalked him for three blocks, till he got skittish, and throwing up his head, left the maid he had been following so closely, and started out by himself for a run in the bushes.

She stood holding his muzzle in her hand, and keeping a keen look-out for policemen.

I stole after him, grabbed his collar with my teeth, slipped my own head in it, and ran like a purse-snatcher with a policeman after him.

Mr. Boston gave an angry roar, but I knew the maid would take care of him, so I loped easily along and forgot about them.

CHAPTER III
I FIND A SECOND FRIEND

I still kept to the Drive, and trotted along well up into the hundredth streets. My plan was to have some one find me with the collar on, which undoubtedly had an address on it—but I must not be found near enough to Mr. Boston’s home to be returned that night, for I might be ignominiously turned out into the darkness of the street.

Now for another poor person. If a rich one found me, into an automobile or a taxi would I go, and presto!—the house of the indignant dog I had robbed.

I am not defending my action. I was a naughty, mischievous dog to steal another dog’s collar. I might even be called a thief, but for the fact that I intended to return the collar with me inside it, when I trusted to my native wit to do the rest.

I had better leave the west side, and turn toward the east. I dashed up the hill past the Home for Incurables, made for the big College of New York that I remembered from my former visit, slipped down the slope behind it, and found myself in the kind of district I wanted.

Here was a nice unfashionable avenue—New York certainly has a great number of wide streets—plenty of noise, and many people walking about, lots of well-lighted shops with everything under the sun in them, and a good many persons with kind faces.

I avoided the very young, the very old—there weren’t many of these, anybody that was too gay or too dull, or too dirty and poor-looking. I wouldn’t mind poor people so much, if they would keep clean. The most of them are so careless in their personal habits, that no self-respecting dog wants to live with them.

I chose a respectable-looking coloured woman who was coming out of a nice-looking meat shop. Her shoes were bright and neat, and by the look of her hands, I judged she was a washerwoman. She had been out working by the day, and she was going to have a good hot meat supper in which I would join her.

Sidling close up to her, I whined gently and held up a beseeching paw.

She gazed down at me with a lovely benevolent expression. “Why, doggie,” she said, “what’s the matter?”

I squeezed a little closer, and licked her clean, cotton dress.

I am not considered really beautiful, but I am a very well-bred dog, and most women say I have a nice way with me when I choose.

“Poor little fellow,” she said, “I believe you’re lost, and I just happened to see you.”

I didn’t say anything to this, though I might have told her that most things are arranged. They don’t happen.

“But perhaps you knew me,” she went on. “Maybe I’ve worked for the lady that owns you.”

Maybe she had. I didn’t know.

“And you smelt my tracks and followed me,” she continued. “I’ve heard that some dogs are mighty clever. Bless your little heart. You want me to take you to your home. Come right along with Ellen, and we’ll telephone to the address I see on your collar. I’ve just got a nickel left.”

I felt badly to have her spend money on me, still it does us all good to be benevolent—dogs and human beings too—so I said nothing, and followed her to the telephone booth in a drug store.

I thought I would die laughing to hear her telephoning. “Is this Riverside twenty twenty?” she asked.

Yes, it was.

“Oh! ma’am, I’ve found your dog.”

Of course I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I guessed what it was. When she said, “But your name is on the collar,” I listened anxiously for the next.

“But,” said my nice coloured woman, “doesn’t the collar go with the dog?”

Something else followed, then my Ellen said, “I did notice it was too big for him. It’s way down over his shoulders. What do you say?”

A long silence came after this. Ellen was listening intently. Finally she hung up the receiver, and looked down at me with a mystified air. “Poor lady—she seems all upset. She said something about a dog thief’s dog, and a collar being stolen. Perhaps she has two dogs.”

Perhaps she is going to have, I thought, but of course I said nothing.

“We’ll go see her in the morning,” said Ellen. “I have to work near there, and now we’ll go home, and have some supper.”

I was not too tired to jump up, and lick her kind, old fingers. Then she led the way to her home, which was in an apartment-house on this same broad avenue. We tugged up six flights of stairs, and while we were going up she said, “I s’pose you’ve been accustomed to elevators, little dog. Poor folks can’t have all the nice things the rich have.” There was nothing to be said to this, except to give her silent sympathy, and stand back while she unlocked her door, and let herself into a neat little set of rooms. She had two bed-rooms and a kitchen, and her son, who was a sidewalk usher in a fashionable hotel, lived with her.

The tiny kitchen was cute. It had a gas stove, a table, two rocking-chairs and two windows. It was just big enough to turn round in. The son, Robert Lee, came up the stairs just after we did, and she hastened to tell him my story.

He laughed heartily, throwing back his head, and showing every tooth he possessed—those teeth of negroes aren’t as white as they look. It’s the contrast of their dark skin that makes them seem to have whiter teeth than white people.

He slipped the collar off my neck, and laid it on a shelf. “It’s a bull-terrier’s collar,” he said, “and this fellow is a fox-terrier, and ought to have a narrower one. I know, ’cause I see the rich folks’ dogs at the hotel. Some one has slipped the wrong collar on this fellow. Yes, take him to that address in the morning. Maybe there’ll be a reward.”