e for him, at enormous expense, had he not stubbornly stuck to
his beer. They were, some of them, for inviting him to their homes--"An'
bring the wonderful dog along for a sing-song"; but Daughtry, proud of
Michael for being the cause of such invitations, explained that the
professional life was too arduous to permit of such diversions. To
Michael he explained that when they proffered a fee of fifty dollars, the
pair of them would "come a-runnin'."

Among the host of acquaintances made in their cabaret-life, two were
destined, very immediately, to play important parts in the lives of
Daughtry and Michael. The first, a politician and a doctor, by name
Emory--Walter Merritt Emory--was several times at Daughtry's table, where
Michael sat with them on a chair according to custom. Among other
things, in gratitude for such kindnesses from Daughtry, Doctor Emory gave
his office card and begged for the privilege of treating, free of charge,
either master or dog should they ever become sick. In Daughtry's
opinion, Dr. Walter Merritt Emory was a keen, clever man, undoubtedly
able in his profession, but passionately selfish as a hungry tiger. As
he told him, in the brutal candour he could afford under such changed
conditions: "Doc, you're a wonder. Anybody can see it with half an eye.
What you want you just go and get. Nothing'd stop you except . . . "

"Except?"

"Oh, except that it was nailed down, or locked up, or had a policeman
standing guard over it. I'd sure hate to have anything you wanted."

"Well, you have," Doctor assured him, with a significant nod at Michael
on the chair between them.

"Br-r-r!" Daughtry shivered. "You give me the creeps. If I thought you
really meant it, San Francisco couldn't hold me two minutes." He
meditated into his beer-glass a moment, then laughed with reassurance.
"No man could get that dog away from me. You see, I'd kill the man
first. I'd just up an' tell 'm, as I'm tellin' you now, I'd kill 'm
first. An' he'd believe me, as you're believin' me now. You know I mean
it. So'd he know I meant it. Why, that dog . . . "

In sheer inability to express the profundity of his emotion, Dag Daughtry
broke off the sentence and drowned it in his beer-glass.

Of quite different type was the other person of destiny. Harry Del Mar,
he called himself; and Harry Del Mar was the name that appeared on the
programmes when he was doing Orpheum "time." Although Daughtry did not
know it,