That’s the worst of a big city. No dog that’s worth knowing cares a rap about you, unless you force yourself on his attention.
“Oh! Come off the L,” I said brusquely.
You see, I recognised at once, that he was a bluff, matter-of-fact dog who would not appreciate frills.
He did come off, and gave me a glance.
“You’re no fairy,” he said hoarsely.
“No, and I’m no crazy cur, either,” I replied. “If I were, you New York dogs would fall all over each other to entertain me. You’ve got to be either a beauty, a crank or a millionaire, to get on in this city.”
“How did you like Virginia?” he asked, with a twist of his under-jaw.
I’m a pretty self-possessed dog, but I could not help starting a bit. “How did you know I have been in Virginia?” I asked sharply.
He gave a snicker. “I know you’re from the South, for you’re shivering on this mild day, and Virginia is the nearest state south that has the exact shade of that lovely red mud sticking to your hind leg.”
“I’m not a Southern dog,” I said hastily.