After a while, a gentleman who had been lunching at a table near us came over to my master, and began to talk about his arcade scheme, which I soon found out was a plan to lessen the crowds on the streets of New York, by building arcades like those on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris, except that the top would be flat, so the people could walk on them too.
“It would give a double row of store-fronts,” said my master’s friend, “and increase the value of second story property. How much will you put in, Granton?”
Master said he would consider it.
“In addition,” went on his friend, “I have a plan to force the owners of apartment-houses to build kennels and runways on the tops of their houses, so that dogs owned by tenants, can be exercised there, instead of in the street, where they have to wear muzzles.”
Master smiled, and said, “That’s more in my line. Let me know when you want to get that law passed,” then he nodded good-bye to his friend, and we sauntered back along the roofs to the elevator, and descended to our hive.
He worked with the other bees till five, when we swarmed to the street. There was Louis with the car. I jumped up beside master, and we wended our way uptown to Madame.
I gathered from Mr. Granton’s remarks that he took her out nearly every day. On arriving before the apartment-house, he murmured, “Suppose you get under Louis’ lap-robe.” Then he added, “No—we might as well have it out first as last.”
When Madame came out with Beanie toddling after her, she stopped, and gave a squeal at sight of me.
“Rudolph, didn’t that ugly thing leave you?”
I bridled—I’m doggy in appearance, still I’m not ugly—I’m distinguished. One of the garçons at the French restaurant said I looked like a chien de race and he was more right than he knew. “Clossie,” said my master, “I like this dog.”