fair. In three months a dog
can change more swiftly than a human being, and Hamlet, although not a
supremely greedy dog, had shown of late increasing signs of a love of
good food, and a regrettable tendency to fawn upon the giver of the
same, even when it was Aunt Amy. Jeremy had checked this tendency, and
had issued punishments when necessary, and Hamlet had accepted the same
without a murmur. So long as Jeremy was there Hamlet's character was
secure; but now, during this long absence, anything might happen. There
was no one to whom Jeremy might leave him; no one who had the slightest
idea what a dog should do and what he should not.

These melancholy thoughts filled Jeremy's mind when he started upon his
walk, but soon he was absorbed by his surroundings. He realised even
more drastically than the facts warranted that he was making his
farewell to the town.

He was not making his final farewell; he would not make that until his
death, and, perhaps, not then; but he was making farewell to some of his
sense of his wonder in it, only not, thank God, to the sense of wonder
itself!

As he went he met the daily figures of all his walks, and he could not
help but speculate on their realisation of the great change that
was coming to him. It was absurd to suppose that they were saying to
themselves: "Ah, there's young Jeremy Cole! He's off to school tomorrow.
I wonder what he feels about it!..." No, that was incredible, and yet
they must realise something of the adventure.

He, on his part, stared at them with a new interest. They had before
shared in the inevitable background without individuality. But now
that he was leaving them, and they would grow, as it were, without his
permission, he was forced to grant them independence. At the bottom
of Orange Street he met Mr. Dawson, the Cathedral Organist; he was a
little, plump man, in a very neat grey suit, a shiny top hat, and very
small spats. He was always dressed in the same fashion, and carried a
black music-case under his arm. He had an eternal interest for Jeremy
because, whenever he was mentioned, the phrase was: "Poor little Mr.
Dawson!" Why he was to be pitied Jeremy did not know. He looked spruce
and bright enough, and generally whistled to himself as he walked; but
"poor" was an exciting adjective, and Jeremy, when he passed him, felt a
little shudder of drama run down his spine.

Outside Poole's bookshop there was, of course, Mr. Mockridge. Mr.
Mockridge was t