gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females, hitting below the belt.

So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. I’d train him by kindness, so I would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn’t blind him.

Afraid he’ll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.

No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost.

So he calls the old dog over.

What’s on you, Garry? says he.

Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in