“‘It’s all right, Billy,’ she said; ‘I understand. You are not to leave me.’
“I jumped off her lap and ran round and round the room very soberly and quietly, and trying to avoid the furniture, but still running.
“She laughed gaily, ‘And some people say that dogs don’t know what we say to them.
Now remember, Billy, you’re to be my own true dog, and not run away nor do naughty things, and I’ll give you a home as long as you live. Do you promise?’
“‘Oh, yes, yes, yes!’ I barked loudly and joyfully, raising myself from the floor on my forelegs each time I opened my mouth.
“‘And bear in your dog mind,’ she said, ‘that I will talk to you a good deal and I expect you to talk to me. If I do not understand your language at first, you must be patient with me.’
“I went right down on the floor before her. I felt so humble. To think of this big, stout, grand lady saying that she would try to understand what a poor little cur dog was trying to tell her! I have never forgotten that remark of my beloved new mistress, and I do wish there were more people in the world who would try to understand dog language.
“‘Now come for a walk,’ she said. ‘I must do something that will seal this bargain, for the town authorities are very particular about dogs, and I may have to stay a long time yet.’
“I just tore down the staircase and into the street. We went right to the little red brick
city hall and Mrs. Martin inquired for the license room. She paid a man a dollar and got a little tag which she fastened to my collar, and if you go to the New Rochelle town hall to-day you will see in a big book, ‘Billy Sunday, fox-terrier, 1917, N. R. D. T. L. 442.’