“But why are you staying here?” asked Kyr Themistocli excitedly. “Why do you not run to the Police Station? They will give him back to you. Even should there be any difficulty, if the dog was not muzzled, as it writes in the newspapers that they must be now, you can always pay the fine, and as much more as the ‘boya’ wants ….”
“My secretary went at once; and the man-servant also—if only they are in time! I could not go myself; I dared not! If I were to see the man who caught the dog in that net, and threw him into that vile cart … I … I could have killed him! I know myself; when I think of anyone ill-treating Solon or indeed any animal, I lose consciousness of what I do. Why, only last night I gave the boy who had tried to steal him such a beating that it will be days before he forgets it.”
“A boy stole him?”
“Yes, a newspaper boy with fair hair; and those shoeblacks and newspaper boys are generally so honest; but this one it seems came to my house regularly with newspapers, and knew the dog; and someone, I suppose, must have paid him well to steal it. I found him just preparing to carry it off under his arm. Well, he got his year’s beating from me any way, and I forbade him to show his face in this neighbourhood again. I told him I would give him to the police if he did!”
The old man had risen from his chair and his blind eyes were wide open and staring.
“You …. You … hurt the lad!” he burst out wildly. “You drove him away! You …. You ….”
But his sentence was never finished.
At that moment there was a patter of running feet at the entrance of the narrow street, a sudden flash of something white in the sun, and Solon, taking a flying leap from Aleko’s arms, made a bee line for his master.
There was a bewildered cry of,—“Solon!” and then a mingling of shrill barks of joy and of broken words:—
“Why, the poor little dog! Why, Solon! My poor one!”