“I know,” said I, nodding again, like that.

“You know what, you crazy, murdering fool?” Those were his words to me, sir.

“I know,” said I, “what I know.”

“And I know,” said he, “what I know.”

And there you are, sir.  He’s Inspector.  I’m—­nobody.

At the Gate

BY MYLA JO CLOSSER

     From the Century Magazine.  By permission of the Century Company
     and Myla J. Closser.

A shaggy Airedale scented his way along the highroad.  He had not been there before, but he was guided by the trail of his brethren who had preceded him.  He had gone unwillingly upon this journey, yet with the perfect training of dogs he had accepted it without complaint.  The path had been lonely, and his heart would have failed him, traveling as he must without his people, had not these traces of countless dogs before him promised companionship of a sort at the end of the road.

The landscape had appeared arid at first, for the translation from recent agony into freedom from pain had been so numbing in its swiftness that it was some time before he could fully appreciate the pleasant dog-country through which he was passing.  There were woods with leaves upon the ground through which to scurry, long grassy slopes for extended runs, and lakes into which he might plunge for sticks and bring them back to—­But he did not complete his thought, for the boy was not with him.  A little wave of homesickness possessed him.

It made his mind easier to see far ahead a great gate as high as the heavens, wide enough for all.  He understood that only man built such barriers and by straining his eyes he fancied he could discern humans passing through to whatever lay beyond.  He broke into a run that he might the more quickly gain this inclosure made beautiful by men and women; but his thoughts outran his pace, and he remembered that he had left the family behind, and again this lovely new compound became not perfect, since it would lack the family.

The scent of the dogs grew very strong now, and coming nearer, he discovered, to his astonishment that of the myriads of those who had arrived ahead of him thousands were still gathered on the outside of the portal.  They sat in a wide circle spreading out on each side of the entrance, big, little, curly, handsome, mongrel, thoroughbred dogs of every age, complexion, and personality.  All were apparently waiting for something, someone, and at the pad of the Airedale’s feet on the hard road they arose and looked in his direction.

That the interest passed as soon as they discovered the new-comer to be a dog puzzled him.  In his former dwelling-place a four-footed brother was greeted with enthusiasm when he was a friend, with suspicious diplomacy when a stranger, and with sharp reproof when an enemy; but never had he been utterly ignored.