e bedroom," said the dogman,
"and you pass through the parlour to get to the bath room, and you
back out through the dining-room to get into the bedroom so you can
turn around and leave by the kitchen. And he snores and barks in his
sleep, and I have to smoke in the park on account of his asthma."

"Don't Missis Telfair--" began Jim.

"Oh, shut up!" said the dogman. "What is it this time?"

"Whiskey," said Jim.

"Make it two," said the dogman.

"Well, I'll be racking along down toward the ferry," said the other.

"Come on, there, you mangy, turtle-backed, snake-headed, bench-legged
ton-and-a-half of soap-grease!" shouted the dogman, with a new note in
his voice and a new hand on the leash. The dog scrambled after them,
with an angry whine at such unusual language from his guardian.

At the foot of Twenty-third Street the dogman led the way through
swinging doors.

"Last chance," said he. "Speak up."

"Whiskey," said Jim.

"Make it two," said the dogman.

"I don't know," said the ranchman, "where I'll find the man I want
to take charge of the Little Powder outfit. I want somebody I know
something about. Finest stretch of prairie and timber you ever
squinted your eye over, Sam. Now if you was--"

"Speaking of hydrophobia," said the dogman, "the other night he chewed
a piece out of my leg because I knocked a fly off of Marcella's arm.
'It ought to be cauterized,' says Marcella, and I was thinking so
myself. I telephones for the doctor, and when he comes Marcella says
to me: 'Help me hold the poor dear while the doctor fixes his mouth.
Oh, I hope he got no virus on any of his toofies when he bit you.' Now
what do you think of that?"

"Does Missis Telfair--" began Jim.

"Oh, drop it," said the dogman. "Come again!"

"Whiskey," said Jim.

"Make it two," said the dogman.

They walked on to the ferry. The ranchman stepped to the ticket
window.

Suddenly the swift landing of three or four heavy kicks was heard,
the air was rent by piercing canine shrieks, and a pained, outraged,
lubberly, bow-legged pudding of a dog ran frenziedly up the street
alone.

"Ticket to Denver," said Jim.

"Make it two," shouted the ex-dogman, reaching for his inside pocket.

VII

THE CHAMPION OF THE WEATHER

If you should speak of the Kiowa Reservation to the average New
Yorker he probably wouldn't know whether you were referring to a new
political dodge at Albany or a leitmotif from "Parsifal." But out
in the