The next night Jip was called upon for a story. And after thinking a moment he said: "All right, I'll tell you the story of 'The Beggar's Dog.'" And the animals all settled down to listen attentively, because Jip had often told them stories before and they liked his way of telling them.
"Some time ago," Jip began, "I knew a dog who was a beggar's dog. We met by chance one day, when a butcher's cart had an accident and got upset. The butcher's boy who was driving the cart was a stupid boy whom all the dogs of that town heartily disliked. So when his cart hit a lamp-post and over-turned, spilling mutton chops and joints all over the street, we dogs were quickly on the scene and ran off with all his meat before he had time to pick himself up out of the gutter.
"It was on this occasion, as I said, that I fell in with the beggar's dog. I found him bolting down the street beside me, with a choice steak flapping merrily around his ears. Myself, I had pinched a string of sausages and the beastly things kept getting tangled up in my legs,—till he came to my rescue and showed me how to coil them up neatly so I could run with them without getting tripped.
"After that the beggar's dog and I became great friends. I found that his master had only one leg and was very, very old.
"'He's most frightfully poor,' said my friend. 'And he's too old to work, you see—even if he had two legs to get around on. And now he has taken to pavement art. You know what that is—you draw pictures on the pavement in colored chalks and you write under them: "All my own work." And then you sit by the side of them, with your cap in your hand, waiting for people to give you pennies.'
"'Oh, yes,' I said, 'I know. I've seen pavement artists before.'
"'Well,' said my friend, 'my beggar doesn't get any pennies. And I know the reason why: his pictures aren't good enough—not even for pavement art. Myself, I don't pretend to know much about drawing. But his pictures are just awful—awful. One kind old lady the other day stopped before our stand—wanting to encourage him, you know—and, pointing to one picture, she said, "Oh, what a lovely tree!" The picture was meant to be a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean, with a storm raging around it. That's the kind of an artist my man is. I don't know what to do about him.'
