The old wayfarer yawned, opened his strange, uneasy eyes, and hobbling to his feet looked lazily up and down the street.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Nine o’clock,” shouted someone.
“Give me a drink, then, and I and my dog will take a walk.” And he drew out a worn wallet, from which he drew a dime, which he handed in through the open window to the now busy landlord.
“Hot,” he croaked, “I’ve got chilly sitting out here in the dew.”
The glass was handed him, and he drank it off with the ease of an accustomed hand.
“I’ll be back before you lock up,” said he, and stepped down into the street, followed by the dog.
“Seems to me I’ve seen that dog before,” remarked someone.
“Why, don’t you know him? That’s old Piper, the dead hermit’s dog. I wonder how this fellow got hold of him.”