nd there were some who cried,
"JOE LOUDEN'S DOG!" that being equally as exciting and explanatory.

Three times round, and still the little fugitive maintained a lead. A
gray-helmeted policeman, a big fellow, had joined the pursuit. He had
children at home who might be playing in the street, and the thought of
what might happen to them if the mad dog should head that way resolved
him to be cool and steady. He was falling behind, so he stopped on the
corner, trusting that Respectability would come round again. He was
right, and the flying brownish thing streaked along Main Street,
passing the beloved stairway for the fourth time. The policeman lifted
his revolver, fired twice, missed once, but caught him with the second
shot in a forepaw, clipping off a fifth toe, one of the small claws
that grow above the foot and are always in trouble. This did not stop
him; but the policeman, afraid to risk another shot because of the
crowd, waited for him to come again; and many others, seeing the
hopeless circuit the mongrel followed, did likewise, armed with bricks
and clubs. Among them was the pimply clerk, who had been inspired to
commandeer a pitchfork from a hardware store.

When the fifth round came, Respectability's race was run. He turned
into Main Street at a broken speed, limping, parched, voiceless,
flecked with blood and foam, snapping feebly at the showering rocks,
but still indomitably a little ahead of the hunt. There was no yelp
left in him--he was too thoroughly winded for that,--but in his
brilliant and despairing eyes shone the agony of a cry louder than the
tongue of a dog could utter: "O master! O all the god I know! Where
are you in my mortal need?"

Now indeed he had a gauntlet to run; for the street was lined with
those who awaited him, while the pursuit grew closer behind. A number
of the hardiest stood squarely in his path, and he hesitated for a
second, which gave the opportunity for a surer aim, and many missiles
struck him. "Let him have it now, officer," said Eugene Bantry,
standing with Judge Pike at the policeman's elbow. "There's your
chance."

But before the revolver could be discharged, Respectability had begun
to run again, hobbling on three legs and dodging feebly. A heavy stone
struck him on the shoulder and he turned across the street, making for
the "National House" corner, where the joyful clerk brandished his
pitchfork. Going slowly, he almost touched the pimply one as he p