“What a nightmare!” said Miss Terry contemptuously.  “I know there isn’t a child in the city who wants such a looking thing.  Why, even the Animal Rescue folks would give the boys a ‘free shot’ at that.  This isn’t going to bring out any Christmas spirit,” she sneered.  “I will try it and see.”

Once more she lifted the window and tossed the dog to the sidewalk.  He rolled upon his back and lay pathetically with crooked legs yearning upward, still smiling.  Hardly had Miss Terry time to conceal herself behind the curtain when she saw a figure approaching, airily waving a stick.

“No ragamuffin this time,” she said.  “Hello!  It is that good-for-nothing young Cooper fellow from the next block.  They say he is a millionaire.  Well, he isn’t even going to see the Flanton Dog.”

The young man came swinging along, debonairly; he was whistling under his breath.  He was a dapper figure in a long coat and a silk hat, under which the candles lighted a rather silly face.  When he reached the spot in the sidewalk where the Flanton Dog lay, he paused a moment looking down.  Then he poked the object with his stick.  On the other side of the street a mother and her little boy were passing at the time.  The child’s eyes caught sight of the dog on the sidewalk, and he hung back, watching to see what the young man would do to it.  But his mother drew him after her.  Just then an automobile came panting through the snow.  With a quick movement Cooper picked up the dog on the end of his stick and tossed it into the street, under the wheels of the machine.  The baby across the street uttered a howl of anguish at the sight.  Miss Terry herself was surprised to feel a pang shoot through her as the car passed over the queer old toy.  She retreated from the window quickly.

“Well, that’s the end of Flanton,” she said with half a sigh.  “I knew that fellow was a brute.  I might have expected something like that.  But it looked so—­so—­” She hesitated for a word, and did not finish her sentence, but bit her lip and sniffed cynically.

CHAPTER IV

THE NOAH’S ARK

“Now, what comes next?” Miss Terry rummaged in the box until her fingers met something odd-shaped, long, and smooth-sided.  With some difficulty she drew out the object, for it was of good size.

“H’m!  The old Noah’s ark,” she said.  “I wonder if all the animals are in there.”

She lifted the cover, and turned out into her lap the long-imprisoned animals and their round-bodied chief.  Mrs. Noah and her sons had long since disappeared.  But the ark-builder, hatless and one-armed, still presided over a menagerie of sorry beasts.  Scarcely one could boast of being a quadruped.  To few of them the years had spared a tail.  From their close resemblance in their misery, it was not hard to believe in the kinship of all animal life.  She took them up and examined them curiously one by one.  Finally she selected a shapeless slate-colored block from the mass.  “This was the elephant,” she mused.  “I remember when Tom stepped on him and smashed his trunk.  ‘I guess I’m going to be an expressman when I grow up,’ he said, looking sorry.  Tom was always full of his jokes.  Now I’ll try this and see what happens to the ark on its last voyage.”