"Well, well; look who's here!" cried Spurlock.
He started toward the dog with the idea of ejecting him, but Ruth intervened.
"No, please! It is good luck for a dog to enter your house. Let me keep him."
"What? Good Lord, he's alive with fleas! They'll be all over the place."
"Please!"
She dropped the curtains and the manuscripts, knelt and held out her arms. The dog approached timidly, his tail going furiously. He suspected a trap. The few whites he had ever known generally offered to pet him when they really wanted to kick him. But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. So he decided to stay.
"You want him?"
"Please!" said Ruth.
"All right. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically.
"I never had a pet. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart. "See how glad he is!"