continued Tom, and then on:
"The watchdog, watching in his sleep,
Catches each flea and makes him weep!"
"Catching fleas indeed!" interrupted Songbird. "Now, Tom, I didn't have any fleas in this poem."
"But all dogs have fleas, Songbird—they own them naturally. You wouldn't deprive a poor, innocent dog of his inheritance, would you?"
"But, Tom, see here——"
"But I wanted to say the poem couldn't be better," went on the fun-loving Rover. "Why don't you send it to some of the dog journals? They would be sure to print it."
"Dog journals?" snorted the would-be poet. "Do you think I write for such a class of publications as that?"
"Well, you might do worse," responded Tom, coolly. "Now, for a first-class journal, they ought to pay you at least a dollar a foot."
"Oh, Tom, you are the worst ever!" murmured Songbird, as he turned away. A few minutes later, Tom saw him sit down on a bench to compose verses as industriously as ever.
"I think I must be going," said William Philander, who had listened to Songbird's effort without making any comment.