“I don’t wonder that you are surprised, Fido, old boy—for I’m not the same Thomas Baker as of yore. Four years away from the old farm have wrought great changes in me. Four years of life in a large city, with its ups and downs, its luxuries and its hardships, are enough to demoralize anybody. And still, you look sleek and comfortable enough.”
“Oh, thank you, Tommy,” replied Fido, “I am doing tolerably well, that’s a fact. You see, I’m living with Mrs. Geeswillem—she’s the wife of old Geeswillem the brewer, you know, who bought me just after you ran away from home. I’ve got a mighty soft job, and don’t you forget it. I have only one complaint to make, and that is that my mistress insists on making me wear this measly red blanket, and this stiff collar with its confounded bells. Then, too, I have to ride out with her every pleasant afternoon, and she stuffs me with bon bons and such truck until I feel like a corner in sugar stock. Why, Tommy, old chap—do—you—know—I haven’t even smelled a rat since I took my present place!”
“Ah, me!” said Tommy, “I haven’t had many chances to smell anything else for the last two years, and the rats I have had, haven’t been the corn-fed article we used to hunt together down at Baker’s farm, I can tell you. How I miss ’em! And the cream, and buttermilk, and sausages and—”
“Great Scott! Tommy,” cried Fido, “don’t ever mention sausage to me again! If you only knew—!”
“Pardon me, Fido. In my glowing recollection of pleasures past, I forgot that you have been living in the city for some time and have probably long since discovered that all is not gold that glitters. There’s many a tragedy imprisoned within the cover of the city sausage. And yet, Fido, such reflections should be valuable to you as inculcating a lesson of Christian humility. If this be not enough, look at me, and think how ephemeral is terrestrial glory. I was once as thou art—fat, pampered, happy, and with never a thought of the morrow. Ah, my boy! who can control his own destiny; who can govern the mysterious workings of fate?”
“Well, Tommy,” said Fido, “you evidently haven’t regulated yours to any large extent. If you have, you’d better let somebody else take the job, for you don’t seem to be making a brilliant success of it. But tell me, what has brought you to this? You were as sleek and dandified a fellow as ever wore whiskers when I saw you last. Don’t you remember the time the boys got up that serenade for you and sang ‘Oh he’s a dude, a dandy dude!’ until the roofs were covered with boot jacks a foot deep? Whew! but weren’t you mad though?”
“Heigho!” sighed Tommy, “if anybody should serenade me in that fashion nowadays, I don’t think I could accuse him of being personal—I look like ‘the last run o’ shad.’ But you have asked me for my history since we were on the farm together. If you have patience to listen to the yarn of a miserable outcast, I’ll gladly tell you my story. My appearance makes it unnecessary for me to remark that I am no longer Thomas Baker, Esquire, but Tommy the Tramp, as the haughty young Duchesse de Maltesa, who lives in the next block, calls me, and you are likely to lose caste if you are seen talking with me in public. Let’s make a sneak into the alley over yonder. There’s a big dry-goods box over there behind that brick barn where we can talk without fear of interruption.”
“Why, Tommy Baker!” said Fido indignantly, drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing fire. “What do you take me for—a man? I’ll have you to understand that I never went back on a friend in my life. Do you suppose I care a straw for other people’s opinions? Not a bit of it! I’m all wool and a yard wide, and don’t you forget it. If it wasn’t necessary to wear this dandy trash in order to hold my job, I’d tear it off in a holy minute. Not another word, sir!—or I’ll roll in the mud and prove to you that I am your old pard—semper fidelis, and all that—even if I go to the pound for it.”
“Dear old Fido!” cried Tommy, his eyes filling with tears. “You are indeed worthy of your name. Greater love than this hath no dog, that he loseth his job for a friend. But, old fellow, to be candid with you, I don’t feel as easy as I might. An awful accident happened this morning to some dear, sweet, tender little chickens in that big yard on the corner, and while my lean and hungry appearance shows my innocence only too plainly, it’s best not to take any chances. Besides, I couldn’t talk freely in this public place.”
“Well, Tommy,” said Fido, “if that’s the way you feel, we will do as you suggest. So far as the chickens are concerned, however, I don’t think you need any X ray to prove an alibi.” And Fido glanced pityingly at poor Tommy’s spectre-like frame and diaphanous hide.