r
harsh nor hasty in the bathing. Michael never was aware whether he liked
or disliked the bathing function. It was all one, part of his own fate
in the world as it was part of Henderson's fate to bathe him every so
often.

Michael's own work was tolerably easy, though monotonous. Leaving out
the eternal travelling, the never-ending jumps from town to town and from
city to city, he appeared on the stage once each night for seven nights
in the week and for two afternoon performances in the week. The curtain
went up, leaving him alone on the stage in the full set that befitted a
bill-topper. Henderson stood in the wings, unseen by the audience, and
looked on. The orchestra played four of the pieces Michael had been
taught by Steward, and Michael sang them, for his modulated howling was
truly singing. He never responded to more than one encore, which was
always "Home, Sweet Home." After that, while the audience clapped and
stamped its approval and delight of the dog Caruso, Jacob Henderson would
appear on the stage, bowing and smiling in stereotyped gladness and
gratefulness, rest his right hand on Michael's shoulders with a
play-acted assumption of comradeliness, whereupon both Henderson and
Michael would bow ere the final curtain went down.

And yet Michael was a prisoner, a life-prisoner. Fed well, bathed well,
exercised well, he never knew a moment of freedom. When travelling, days
and nights he spent in the cage, which, however, was generous enough to
allow him to stand at full height and to turn around without too
uncomfortable squirming. Sometimes, in hotels in country towns, out of
the crate he shared Henderson's room with him. Otherwise, unless other
animals were hewing on the same circuit time, he had, outside his cage,
the freedom of the animal room attached to the particular theatre where
he performed for from three days to a week.

But there was never a chance, never a moment, when he might run free of a
cage about him, of the walls of a room restricting him, of a chain
shackled to the collar about his throat. In good weather, in the
afternoons, Henderson often took him for a walk. But always it was at
the end of a chain. And almost always the way led to some park, where
Henderson fastened the other end of the chain to the bench on which he
sat and browsed Swedenborg. Not one act of free agency was left to
Michael. Other dogs ran free, playing with one another, or behaving
bellicosely. If