“Yes,” she said miserably. “I come from Mount Vernon way. These folks here were automobiling a few weeks ago, and wanting a cat, stole me.”
“Why don’t you run home?” I asked.
“All that way—up toward Harlem and the Bronx—I’m scared.”
“Look here,” I said, “tell me your address. Maybe some day I can do something for you.”
“The Lady Gay eating-house,” she said, “but there’s precious little gaiety about it.”
“Cheer up,” I said, “I haven’t a home myself, and I’ve had lots of trouble, and I’m going to have more, but I never give up.”
“Where do you live?” she asked curiously.
I began to laugh. “I wish I knew. I’m looking for a home.”
“You’re quite a nobby dog,” she said looking me over. “I suppose our eating-house wouldn’t suit you.”