Chapter V

But the little brown dog did not reform. With unabated cheerfulness he continued to dig in Miss Clementina's geranium bed, and to chew Mr. Maclin's doormat.

"He's hungry," said Miss Clementina; "you should give him more dog biscuits."

"He has too much to eat," retorted Mr. Maclin. "He digs holes in the geranium bed to bury the bones you give him."

The little brown dog was fast becoming a bond of union between the lonely man and the lonelier woman.

"_Your_ dog has chewed up my new magazine," Miss Clementina would call to her neighbor. "Do take him home."

"Oh, no," Mr. Maclin would call back. "That is not _my_ dog. _My_ dog is chasing a gray cat out of the back yard."

But one day the little brown dog disappeared. Mr. Maclin laid down a new doormat, and said he was glad it needn't be chewed up right away.

Miss Clementina filled in the holes in the geranium bed, and set out some new plants. She gathered up a bone, two old shoes and a chewed-up newspaper, and expressed the hope that once more she might be able to keep the lawn tidy.

Twenty-four hours later the little brown dog had not returned. Mr. Maclin went out and gave the unoffending new doormat a savage kick. Then he put on his hat and went down the street--whistling. It was not a musical whistle. On the contrary, it was shrill and ear-piercing. It was, in fact, the whistle that the little brown dog had been wont to interpret as meaning that Mr. Maclin desired his immediate presence.

Once, when Mr. Maclin paused for breath, he heard faintly: "Dog, dog, dog!"

It was thus that Miss Clementina had been in the habit of summoning the little brown dog.

Mr. Maclin turned and walked in the direction of her voice. Folly, like misery, loves company.

"The little brown dog," said Miss Clementina, when Mr. Maclin had overtaken her; "_where_ do you suppose he can be? I've called until I'm hoarse."

"And I have whistled," said Mr. Maclin, "but he doesn't answer."

"I can't believe that he ran away," said Miss Clementina; "he was so fond of us."

"And I'm sure he wasn't stolen," said Mr. Maclin. "He wasn't valuable enough to steal."

"I thought," said Miss Clementina, "that I was glad to have him leave. He certainly did mess the place up terribly. But I miss him so, I'd be downright glad to have him come back and dig a hole in the geranium bed."

"I've a new doormat waiting for him," said Mr. Maclin. "Miss Clementina, where _do_ you suppose he is?"

"I don't know," said Miss Clementina. "I only wish I did. Why, there's a little brown dog now. Perhaps----Here, dog, dog!"

Mr. Maclin's whistle supplemented Miss Clementina's call, but the brown dog took no heed.

"It's some one else's dog," said Miss Clementina. "Don't you see, he has on a collar?"

But Mr. Maclin had seen something else--a small, brass tag attached to the dog's collar.

"Miss Clementina," said he, "do you suppose the little brown dog's tax was paid?"

"Tax?" questioned Miss Clementina.

"Yes, the dog tax, you know."

"I didn't know there was a dog tax," said Miss Clementina.

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Maclin, "that the dog-catcher has caught the little brown dog."

To Miss Clementina's mind the dog-catcher suggested awful possibilities. "Oh!" she said, "what _can_ we do?"

"I shall go at once to the pound," said Mr. Maclin, determinedly, "pay his tax and take him out."