Now for another poor person. If a rich one found me, into an automobile or a taxi would I go, and presto!—the house of the indignant dog I had robbed.
I am not defending my action. I was a naughty, mischievous dog to steal another dog’s collar. I might even be called a thief, but for the fact that I intended to return the collar with me inside it, when I trusted to my native wit to do the rest.
I had better leave the west side, and turn toward the east. I dashed up the hill past the Home for Incurables, made for the big College of New York that I remembered from my former visit, slipped down the slope behind it, and found myself in the kind of district I wanted.
Here was a nice unfashionable avenue—New York certainly has a great number of wide streets—plenty of noise, and many people walking about, lots of well-lighted shops with everything under the sun in them, and a good many persons with kind faces.
I avoided the very young, the very old—there weren’t many of these, anybody that was too gay or too dull, or too dirty and poor-looking. I wouldn’t mind poor people so much, if they would keep clean. The most of them are so careless in their personal habits, that no self-respecting dog wants to live with them.
I chose a respectable-looking coloured woman who was coming out of a nice-looking meat shop. Her shoes were bright and neat, and by the look of her hands, I judged she was a washerwoman. She had been out working by the day, and she was going to have a good hot meat supper in which I would join her.
Sidling close up to her, I whined gently and held up a beseeching paw.
She gazed down at me with a lovely benevolent expression. “Why, doggie,” she said, “what’s the matter?”
I squeezed a little closer, and licked her clean, cotton dress.
I am not considered really beautiful, but I am a very well-bred dog, and most women say I have a nice way with me when I choose.