She described at great length the dog’s strange revival. It stood humbly enough in the background, a little drowsy, but not at all uneasy.
“No,” cried Oddfellow firmly; “can’t do it—destroyed my tackle. You take him home, ma’am; he’s all right. Dog that’s been through that ought to live a long life. Take him home again, ma’am,” he urged, “he’s all right.”
The woman was old; she was feeble and poor; she was not able to keep him now, he was such a big dog. Wasn’t it hard enough to get him food, things were so dear, and now there was the licence money due! She hadn’t got it; she never would have it; she really couldn’t afford it.
“You take him, sir, and keep him, sir.”
“No, I can’t keep a dog—no room.”
“Have him, sir,” she pleaded; “you’ll be kind to him.”
“No, no; ... but ... if it’s only his licence ... I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay for his licence rather than destroy him.”
Putting his hand into the till, he laid three half-crowns before her. The old woman stared at the chemist, but she stared still more at the money. Then, thanking him with quaint, confused dignity, she gathered it up, but again stood gazing meditatively at the three big coins, now lying, so unexpectedly, in her thin palm.
“Good dog,” said the chemist, giving him a final pat. “Good dog!”
Then the poor old woman, with tears in her eyes, turned out of Mr. Oddfellow’s shop and, followed by her dog, walked off to a quarter of the town where there was another chemist who kept a lethal chamber.