men, and outlaws like himself, and that they
gained their positions and immunity by turning state's evidence, by
turning traitor and delivering up their comrades to imprisonment and
death. He knows that some day--unless he is shot first--his Judas will
set to work, the trap will be laid, and he will be the surprised
instead of a surpriser at a stick-up.

That is why the man who holds up trains picks his company with
a thousand times the care with which a careful girl chooses a
sweetheart. That is why he raises himself from his blanket of nights
and listens to the tread of every horse's hoofs on the distant road.
That is why he broods suspiciously for days upon a jesting remark or
an unusual movement of a tried comrade, or the broken mutterings of
his closest friend, sleeping by his side.

And it is one of the reasons why the train-robbing profession is not
so pleasant a one as either of its collateral branches--politics or
cornering the market.

VI

ULYSSES AND THE DOGMAN

Do you know the time of the dogmen?

When the forefinger of twilight begins to smudge the clear-drawn lines
of the Big City there is inaugurated an hour devoted to one of the
most melancholy sights of urban life.

Out from the towering flat crags and apartment peaks of the cliff
dwellers of New York steals an army of beings that were once men. Even
yet they go upright upon two limbs and retain human form and speech;
but you will observe that they are behind animals in progress. Each of
these beings follows a dog, to which he is fastened by an artificial
ligament.

These men are all victims to Circe. Not willingly do they become
flunkeys to Fido, bell boys to bull terriers, and toddlers after
Towzer. Modern Circe, instead of turning them into animals, has kindly
left the difference of a six-foot leash between them. Every one of
those dogmen has been either cajoled, bribed, or commanded by his own
particular Circe to take the dear household pet out for an airing.

By their faces and manner you can tell that the dogmen are bound in a
hopeless enchantment. Never will there come even a dog-catcher Ulysses
to remove the spell.

The faces of some are stonily set. They are past the commiseration,
the curiosity, or the jeers of their fellow-beings. Years of
matrimony, of continuous compulsory canine constitutionals, have
made them callous. They unwind their beasts from lamp posts, or the
ensnared legs of profane pedestrians, with the stol