At the edge of the town, Hazen set her on the ground and at once began to walk rapidly away in the direction of home.  He had gone perhaps fifty yards when Lass was gamboling merrily around his feet.  A kick sent the dismayed and agonized puppy flying through the air like a whimpering catapult, and landed her against a bank with every atom of breath knocked out of her.  Before she had fairly struck ground,—­before she could look about her,—­Hazen had doubled around a corner and had vanished.

At a run, he made for home, glad the unpleasant job was over.  At the door his wife met him.

“Well,” she demanded, “did you drown her in the canal, the way you said?”

“No,” he confessed sheepishly, “I didn’t exactly drown her.  You see, she nestled down into my arms so cozy and trusting-like, that I—­well, I fixed it so she’ll never show up around here again.  Trust me to do a job thoroughly, if I do it at all.  I—­”

A dramatic gesture from Mrs. Hazen’s stubby forefinger interrupted him.  He followed the finger’s angry point.  Close at his side stood Lass, wagging her tail and staring expectantly up at him.

With her keen power of scent, it had been no exploit at all to track the man over a mile of unfamiliar ground.  Already she had forgiven the kick or had put it down to accident on his part.  And at the end of her eager chase, she was eager for a word of greeting.

“I’ll be—­” gurgled Hazen, blinking stupidly.

“I guess you will be,” conceded his wife.  “If that’s the ‘thorough’ way you do your jobs at the factory—­”

“Say,” he mumbled in a sort of wondering appeal, “is there any human that would like to trust a feller so much as to risk another ribcracking kick, just for the sake of being where he is?  I almost wish—­”

But the wish was unspoken.  Hazen was a true American husband.  He feared his wife more than he loved fairness.  And his wife’s glare was full upon him.  With a grunt he picked Lass up by the neck, tucked her under his arm and made off through the dark.

He did not take the road toward the canal, however.  Instead he made for the railroad tracks.  He remembered how, as a lad, he had once gotten rid of a mangy cat, and he resolved to repeat the exploit.  It was far more merciful to the puppy—­or at least, to Hazen’s conscience,—­than to pitch Lass into the slimy canal with a stone tied to her neck.

A line of freight cars—­“empties”—­was on a siding, a short distance above the station.  Hazen walked along the track, trying the door of each car he passed.  The fourth he came to was unlocked.  He slid back the newly greased side door, thrust Lass into the chilly and black interior and quickly slid shut the door behind her.  Then with the silly feeling of having committed a crime, he stumbled away through the darkness at top speed.

A freight car has a myriad uses, beyond the carrying of legitimate freight.  From time immemorial, it has been a favorite repository for all manner of illicit flotsam and jetsam human or otherwise.