“S-h-h-h!” said the dogman, signalling the waiter; “give it a name.”
“Whiskey,” said Jim.
“Make it two,” said the dogman.
“She’s well,” he continued, after his chaser. “She refused to live anywhere but in New York, where she came from. We live in a flat. Every evening at six I take that dog out for a walk. It’s Marcella’s pet. There never were two animals on earth, Jim, that hated one another like me and that dog does. His name’s Lovekins. Marcella dresses for dinner while we’re out. We eat tabble dote. Ever try one of them, Jim?”
“No, I never,” said Jim. “I seen the signs, but I thought they said ‘table de hole.’ I thought it was French for pool tables. How does it taste?”
“If you’re going to be in the city for awhile we will—”
“No, sir-ee. I’m starting for home this evening on the 7.25. Like to stay longer, but I can’t.”
“I’ll walk down to the ferry with you,” said the dogman.
The dog had bound a leg each of Jim and the chair together, and had sunk into a comatose slumber. Jim stumbled, and the leash was slightly wrenched. The shrieks of the awakened beast rang for a block around.
“If that’s your dog,” said Jim, when they were on the street again, “what’s to hinder you from running that habeas corpus you’ve got around his neck over a limb and walking off and forgetting him?”