"Oh, yassum, he is a regulah brute. He just loves to hear 'm splosh when they light."
Noting the shiver that shook the girl, the porter offered a bit of consolation:
"Better lemme have the pore little thing up in the baggage cah. He'll be in charge of a lovely baggage-smasher."
"Are you sure he's a nice man?"
"Oh, yassum, he's death on trunks, but he's a natural born angel to dogs."
"Well, if I must, I must," she sobbed. "Poor little Snoozleums! Can he come back and see me to-morrow?" Marjorie's tears were splashing on the puzzled dog, who nestled close, with a foreboding of disaster.
"I reckon p'haps you'd better visit him."
"Poor dear little Snoozleums—good night, my little darling. Poor little child—it's the first night he's slept all by his 'ittle lonesome, and——"
The porter was growing desperate. He clapped his hands together impatiently and urged: "I think I hear that conducta comin'."
The ruse succeeded. Marjorie fairly forced the dog on him. "Quick—hide him—hurry!" she gasped, and sank on the seat completely crushed. "I'll be so lonesome without Snoozleums."