TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
off and leave the little beggar. We didn’t want him anyhow.”
Just here they sighted a mourner’s bench whereon was seated a small, plump figure looking so weary, so patiently forlorn, their hearts smote them.
“The poor, wee, lost thing,” murmured Patty, and Pat gave her arm a surreptitious and responsive squeeze. “We'll have to take him with us to-day, dearest, and we'll advertise, put his picture in the paper or something,” and she kissed Bateese in her contrition.
“We will get a cab,” said Pat. Somehow the zest had gone from things and he felt flat and tired.
As they turned to go Patty spelled on her fingers, “D-O-G.” Her husband’s face hardened.
“No,” he answered, loudly and emphatically. “Not if I know it.”
27
