Some of these little fool-dog creations that have been inbred till they are nothing but a stomach with a little skin wrapped round it, have, of course, no natural impulse left, but I insist that any dog with a remnant of real dog left in him, adores the open. We get this love of liberty from our wolf and dingo ancestors.
Well, as I trotted behind and before, and encircled and interwove master, better than any skirt dancer could have done, I heard presently a wailing in front of us.
We soon came up with the wailer—a dirty, pretty child about four years of age, dragged by the arm by a sullen, slatternly woman who looked about as much out of place on Riverside Drive as master would have looked in Gringo’s saloon.
The woman was tired and ugly, and the child was discouraged and weary. Poor little imp—I can see his bare legs now, looking cold and fiery in the nipping night air.
Master followed behind the woman, biting his lip, and trying to hold himself back, but he couldn’t.
At last, when a jerk more forcible than any before made the little wanderer burst into heartsore weeping, something gave way in master, and he strode after the woman.
He held his hat in his hand, and I could see the perspiration glistening on his forehead.
The child turned his poor, little, tear-stained face over his shoulder.
Master held out both his hands, “Oh! give him to me!” he said in a dreadful voice.