Then he put him down, and walked slower than usual, in order to accommodate his new acquisition. I walked close to Beanie, and from time to time touched his head with my muzzle.
“Cheer up, young fellow,” I said, “you’re lucky to have changed hands. You would have been dead in a few months. You’re all out of condition. Master will get you a good home.”
“I don’t want another home,” he said miserably. “I want my old one, and I love my mistress.”
“In spite of the way she’s treated you?” I asked.
“That doesn’t make any difference with a dog,” he replied.
“It would with me,” I said.
“You’re not an ordinary dog,” he said. “You’re an exception.”
“I believe that’s true,” I said. “I wonder where we’re going.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” he said wretchedly, and he plodded along like a machine.
Master had left Riverside Drive, and was going slowly up One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Street. Soon we were in the shadow of Great Hall of the College of New York. Some one was playing the organ, and through an open door, we could catch the solemn strains of some dirge-like music.