“‘I get my food, and a good many kicks sometimes,’ he answered.
“‘Poor dog!’ I exclaimed, for my heart was filled with pity for him, and I no longer thought his an attractive life. ‘Why don’t you run away?’
“Bob grinned. ‘I’m not so stupid as that,’ he replied. ‘Dogs that run away come to bad ends. Besides, I’m happy enough. I get a holiday sometimes, and a walk in the park, and on Sunday I can do what I like.’
“‘Dear me!’ I exclaimed languidly. ‘What a dreadful life! Now, I have nothing to do but to please myself every day in the week, and as for the park, I go there so often I’m perfectly sick of it.’
“‘Do you get your Sundays out?’ asked Bob.
“I hesitated. ‘This is really my first Sunday out,’ I replied at length, ‘but I intend in future—’
“‘What’s your name?’ rudely interrupted Bob.
“He certainly had no manners at all, but what could you expect from a dog of low degree?
“‘My name,’ I replied, holding up my head with a slight sniff of disdain, ‘is—Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough!’
“I had no time to notice the effect of these words, for they were hardly out of my mouth when I felt myself seized by a large hand, lifted into the air, and thrust into someone’s coat pocket. From this humiliating position I heard the voice of the man washing the cart:—