And he did.
The next morning he went out to feed the dog and found him—dead.
That day nine families moved out of Jenkins' flat, and the tenth was just going when he donated the kraut to an orphan asylum. The orphans broke loose and took leg bail.
There wasn't any one but the janitor to feed it to and he threatened to quit.
The last Jenkins heard of the kraut, it was about to be shipped to Dick Croker to sod his lawn at Wantage.
I came near being put under the sod myself the other day.
I heard that one of my best and oldest friends, J. Fishpond O'Morgan, was down with rheumatism in his arm, so I went around to see him.
As soon as I showed my face in the door, Fishpond howled: