“Hey there!” called out the driver.  “Is your name Appleboy?”

Appleboy nodded.

“Put your coat on, then, and come along,” directed the other.  “I’ve got a warrant for you.”

“Warrant?” stammered Appleboy dizzily.

“What’s that?” cried Bashemath, appearing at the door.  “Warrant for what?”

The officer slowly descended and handed Appleboy a paper.

“For assault,” he replied.  “I guess you know what for, all right!”

“We haven’t assaulted anybody,” protested Mrs. Appleboy heatedly.  “Andrew—­”

“You can explain all that to the judge,” retorted the cop.  “Meantime put on your duds and climb in.  If you don’t expect to spend the night at the station you’d better bring along the deed of your house so you can give bail.”

“But who’s the warrant for?” persisted Mrs. Appleboy.

“For Enoch Appleboy,” retorted the cop wearily.  “Can’t you read?”

“But Enoch didn’t do a thing!” she declared.  “It was Andrew!”

“Who’s Andrew?” inquired the officer of the law mistrustfully.

“Andrew’s a dog,” she explained.

* * * * *

“Mr. Tutt,” announced Tutt, leaning against his senior partner’s door jamb with a formal-looking paper in his hand, “I have landed a case that will delight your legal soul.”

“Indeed?” queried the elder lawyer.  “I have never differentiated between my legal soul and any other I may possess.  However, I assume from your remark that we have been retained in a matter presenting some peculiarly absurd, archaic or otherwise interesting doctrine of law?”

“Not directly,” responded Tutt.  “Though you will doubtless find it entertaining enough, but indirectly—­atmospherically so to speak—­it touches upon doctrines of jurisprudence, of religion and of philosophy, replete with historic fascination.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Tutt, laying down his stogy.  “What kind of a case is it?”

“It’s a dog case!” said the junior partner, waving the paper.  “The dog bit somebody.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Tutt, perceptibly brightening.  “Doubtless we shall find a precedent in Oliver Goldsmith’s famous elegy: 

  “And in that town a dog was found,
    As many dogs there be,
  Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
    And curs of low degree.”

“Only,” explained Tutt, “in this case, though the man recovered of the bite, the dog refused to die!”

“And so they want to prosecute the dog?  It can’t be done.  An animal hasn’t been brought to the bar of justice for several centuries.”

“No, no!” interrupted Tutt.  “They don’t—­”

“There was a case,” went on Mr. Tutt reminiscently “Let me see—­at Sauvigny, I think it was—­about 1457, when they tried a sow and three pigs for killing a child.  The court assigned a lawyer to defend her, but like many assigned counsel he couldn’t think of anything to say in her behalf.  As regards the little pigs he did enter the plea that no animus was shown, that they had merely followed the example of their mother, and that at worst they were under age and irresponsible.  However, the court found them all guilty, and the sow was publicly hanged in the market place.”