I knew several breeds, but this nondescript was really beyond my ken.
At the same time it's never good policy to confess ignorance when asked a point-blank question by Young America.
"Oh," I said casually, "why, he's a—yes, a watch dog, Harold."
The boy pondered a minute, while the beast kept revolving.
"Well," he observed, "from the long time it takes him to wind himself up, I guess he must be a Waterbury watch dog."
While on the way to the Grand Central Depot I had to take the seat at the rear end of an open car.
Of course as you all know the last three or four seats are generally reserved for men who must smoke or die.
Occasionally, on account of the crowded condition of the cars, a female or two finds herself tucked away between the users of the weed.
Perhaps she is accustomed to it at home and pays little attention to the puffs of pungent smoke that float around her.