ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.
XIV.—THE LEFT-FIELD OF THE LINCOLN NINE.
By C. F. H.
"Pay his fare in, please, Mister!"
The speaker was a ragged little urchin, with a bright, jolly face, who stood at the entrance of a base-ball ground. By his side sat a great black poodle. The dog looked up at me with such a solemn and woe-begone expression that I laughed outright, whereupon the boy took courage and repeated his request: "Pass him in, Mister; it's only a dime. We're under age."
"Do you mean the dog?" I asked.
"Yes," was the reply. "He's a base-baller. He hasn't missed a game this season; and," the boy continued earnestly, "I wouldn't have him miss one, either. But, you see, Mother's rent's due to-day, so we've no extra cash,—have we, Major?" And the big poodle wagged its tail and showed its teeth in a broad dog-laugh.
It certainly was the most remarkable-looking poodle I had ever seen. It was a pure black, with the back part of its body shaved to the skin except where, on the top, the hair had been left in the shape of an anchor. A tuft only was left at the end of the tail; the feet had bracelets or anklets of hair, and as the dog's head and chest were not clipped it looked like a lion from the front; but from the side it was the most comical-looking object you can possibly imagine, while in looking down upon it, the symbol of hope was always presented; and this anchor, as I learned afterward, was emblematical of the Major's chief characteristic.
"What're the chances, Mister?" asked his owner, after I had examined the dog for a few moments.