ie," says he, "good doggie. You almost look like you could
speak. What is it, doggie--Cats?"

Cats! Could speak!

But, of course, he couldn't understand. Humans were denied the speech of
animals. The only common ground of communication upon which dogs and men
can get together is in fiction.

In the flat across the hall from us lived a lady with a black-and-tan
terrier. Her husband strung it and took it out every evening, but he
always came home cheerful and whistling. One day I touched noses with
the black-and-tan in the hall, and I struck him for an elucidation.

"See, here, Wiggle-and-Skip," I says, "you know that it ain't the nature
of a real man to play dry nurse to a dog in public. I never saw one
leashed to a bow-wow yet that didn't look like he'd like to lick every
other man that looked at him. But your boss comes in every day as perky
and set up as an amateur prestidigitator doing the egg trick. How does
he do it? Don't tell me he likes it."

"Him?" says the black-and-tan. "Why, he uses Nature's Own Remedy. He
gets spifflicated. At first when we go out he's as shy as the man on the
steamer who would rather play pedro when they make 'em all jackpots. By
the time we've been in eight saloons he don't care whether the thing on
the end of his line is a dog or a catfish. I've lost two inches of my
tail trying to sidestep those swinging doors."

The pointer I got from that terrier--vaudeville please copy--set me to
thinking.

One evening about 6 o'clock my mistress ordered him to get busy and do
the ozone act for Lovey. I have concealed it until now, but that is what
she called me. The black-and-tan was called "Tweetness." I consider
that I have the bulge on him as far as you could chase a rabbit. Still
"Lovey" is something of a nomenclatural tin can on the tail of one's
self respect.

At a quiet place on a safe street I tightened the line of my custodian
in front of an attractive, refined saloon. I made a dead-ahead scramble
for the doors, whining like a dog in the press despatches that lets the
family know that little Alice is bogged while gathering lilies in the
brook.

"Why, darn my eyes," says the old man, with a grin; "darn my eyes if the
saffron-coloured son of a seltzer lemonade ain't asking me in to take
a drink. Lemme see--how long's it been since I saved shoe leather by
keeping one foot on the foot-rest? I believe I'll--"

I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he took, sitting at a table. For an hour
h