if he can't be
made to look as respectable as that dog of Mrs. Smith. Hetty Adams has
clipped that Newfoundland dog of hers. Changed him something terrible.
When I come across them on the street today, I declare I only recognized
half of him--an' I wouldn't have recognized that much if he hadn't
wagged it at me. It beats all what women will do to keep up with the
styles."

"I seen him today," said Mr. Spratt, "an' I never in all my life see a
dog that looked so mortified. I says to Hetty, says I: 'In the name o'
Heaven, Hetty,' says I, 'what you been doin' to Shep?' An' she says:
'I'd thank you, Newt Spratt, not to call my dog Shep. His name is
Edgar.' So I says to Shep: 'Come here, Edgar--that's a good dog.' An' he
never moved. Then I says: 'Hyah, Shep!' an' he almost jumped out of his
hide, he was so happy to find somebody that knowed who he was. '_Edgar_,
your granny!' says I to Hetty. 'What's the use of ruinin' a good dog by
calling him Edgar?' An' Hetty says: 'Come here, Edgar! Come here, I
say!' But Edgar, he never paid any attention to her. He just kep' on
tryin' to lick my hand, an' so she hit him a clip with her parysol an'
says: 'Edgar, must I speak to you again? Come here, I say! Behave like a
gentleman!' 'There ain't no dog livin' that's goin' to behave like a
gentleman if you call him names like that,' says I. 'It ain't human
nature,' says I. An' just to prove it to her, I turned an' says to Shep:
'Ain't that so, Shep, old sport?' An' what do you think that poor old
dog done? He got right up on his hind legs and tried to kiss me."

"No wonder she wants to call him Edgar," said Harry Squires. "That's
just the kind of thing an Edgar sort of dog would do."

"I was just going to say," said Mr. Crow, twisting his whiskers
reflectively, "that maybe she does it because she's had smallpox, or
been terribly scalded, or is cross-eyed, or something like that."

Mr. Squires inwardly rejoiced. He knew that the seed had been planted in
the Marshal's fertile brain, that it would thrive in the night and
sprout on the morrow. He saw delectable operations ahead; he was fond of
the old man, but nothing afforded him greater entertainment than the
futile but vainglorious efforts of Anderson Crow to achieve renown as a
detective.

The reporter was a constant thorn in the side of Crow, who both loved
and feared him. The _Banner_ seldom appeared without some sarcastic
advice to the Marshal of Tinkletown, but an adjoining col