's nurse.

The small boy was very well-dressed, and looked delicate. He was
crying.

'Poor doggie,' he said, 'poor doggie.'

'It wasn't my fault, Master Peter,' said the chauffeur respectfully.
'He run out into the road before I seen him.'

'That's right,' I put in, for I didn't want to get the man into
trouble.

'Oh, he's not dead,' said the small boy. 'He barked.'

'He growled,' said the nurse. 'Come away, Master Peter. He might bite
you.'

Women are trying sometimes. It is almost as if they deliberately
misunderstood.

'I won't come away. I'm going to take him home with me and send for the
doctor to come and see him. He's going to be my dog.'

This sounded all right. Goodness knows I am no snob, and can rough it
when required, but I do like comfort when it comes my way, and it
seemed to me that this was where I got it. And I liked the boy. He was
the right sort.

The nurse, a very unpleasant woman, had to make objections.

'Master Peter! You can't take him home, a great, rough, fierce, common
dog! What would your mother say?'

'I'm going to take him home,' repeated the child, with a determination
which I heartily admired, 'and he's going to be my dog. I shall call
him Fido.'

There's always a catch in these good things. Fido is a name I
particularly detest. All dogs do. There was a dog called that that I
knew once, and he used to get awfully sick when we shouted it out after
him in the street. No doubt there have been respectable dogs called
Fido, but to my mind it is a name like Aubrey or Clarence. You may be
able to live it down, but you start handicapped. However, one must take
the rough with the smooth, and I was prepared to yield the point.

'If you wait, Master Peter, your father will buy you a beautiful,
lovely dog....'

'I don't want a beautiful, lovely dog. I want this dog.'

The slur did not wound me. I have no illusions about my looks. Mine is
an honest, but not a beautiful, face.

'It's no use talking,' said the chauffeur, grinning. 'He means to have
him. Shove him in, and let's be getting back, or they'll be thinking
His Nibs has been kidnapped.'

So I was carried to the car. I could have walked, but I had an idea
that I had better not. I had made my hit as a crippled dog, and a
crippled dog I intended to remain till things got more settled down.

The chauffeur started the car off again. What with the shock I had had
and the luxury of riding in a motor-car, I was a little distra