“And what do you think of them?”
“I hate most of them,” said Gringo stoutly, “can’t make ’em out. On the Bowery, we’re honest—if a dog likes you, you’re made aware of it. If he hates you, he lies low for you.”
“Then you think we’re deceitful up here,” I said with a troubled air.
“Deceitful ain’t the name for it. They smile and scrape, and give a polite look in the eye, but I’m dead sure they’re grinning behind my back. I’ll never like these up-town dogs. Me for the simple life and honesty.”
I said nothing. What he affirmed was partly true, but he was over-suspicious. The trouble was, his manners weren’t right, and his sub-conscious self told him he was not in his proper milieu.
“By the way,” he said, “I note you’re as well-known as the cops. How did you fix that with so many dogs about? You’ve not been here long.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a smile. “It’s easy for me to make friends. I don’t usually stay long in a place, and it’s get acquainted in a hurry, or not at all—a sort of ‘dogs-that-pass-in-the-night’ fashion.”
“Some day I want to swap experiences with you,” he said.
“With pleasure,” I replied.
“You like your present crib, don’t you?” he inquired.