“You might have made it two hundred,” she said peevishly.
He smiled. He was too good a man of business to pay more for a thing than he had to, even to his own wife.
“Your dog is mine now,” he said.
“Very well,” she replied carelessly, “and mind, I don’t want that fat awkward thing round this apartment. We’ve too many dogs now,” and she glared at me.
She had never forgiven me for staying with her husband, and I knew, and he knew, that she was jealous of me.
“I’ll find a home for him,” said Mr. Granton. “Come on, Beans, since you’re my dog now, come out and take a walk with Boy and me.”
He always called me Boy or Boy-Dog. He said I was too clever to be just plain dog.
I hate sorrow and suffering and ugly things. With my tail between my legs, I slunk after my master. I didn’t like to look at Beanie. He was behind me. Poor, poor young dog—prematurely aged on account of the over feeding, over-petting and the over-everything of a foolish mistress, and now shaken out of his paradise.
He looked frightfully, but he made an effort to hold himself up, and waddled toward the elevator with us.
When we got in the street, Mr. Granton said kindly, “I’ll carry you a while, old man. You’re rather knocked in a heap,” and he actually took that fat young dog under his arm, and walked block after block with him, till Beanie got back some of his usual complacent self-possession.