“Oh! you idiot,” growled the man.
Baked Beans was pretending I had nearly killed him. I sized up my audience, then I walked up to the man, crouched humbly before him, and put a protesting paw on one of his bed-room slippers.
He must have stood six feet four in his pajamas. I threw him one upward glance. He understood.
We dogs divide man and womankind into two classes. Those who understand us, and those who don’t.
He bent over me, slipped the silly collar from my neck, and twisted it thoughtfully round and round in his fingers. Then he began to laugh, and I thought he would never stop.
“Rudolph,” said the lady, who was hugging the bull, “Rudolph, do stop. You get on my nerves. And what do you see to laugh about? A nasty, fighting, street dog bursts into our apartment, bullies poor Beanie, and you admire him for it. I call it brute force. Now, woman, tell me your business.”
Ellen was smiling indulgently. She was a Southern negress, and had infinite indulgence for the whims of fine ladies. She told her story in an honest, straightforward manner, and the man believed her; but the woman didn’t.
“How much do you want?” she asked coldly, when Ellen had finished.
“You needn’t give me anything, ma’am,” said Ellen sweetly. “It’s a nice morning, and I’ve had a walk before I goes to my work.”