These unfortunate dry nurses of dogdom, the cur cuddlers, mongrel managers, Spitz stalkers, poodle pullers, Skye scrapers, dachshund dandlers, terrier trailers and Pomeranian pushers of the cliff-dwelling Circes follow their charges meekly.  The doggies neither fear nor respect them.  Masters of the house these men whom they hold in leash may be, but they are not masters of them.  From cosey corner to fire escape, from divan to dumbwaiter, doggy’s snarl easily drives this two-legged being who is commissioned to walk at the other end of his string during his outing.

One twilight the dogmen came forth as usual at their Circes’ pleading, guerdon, or crack of the whip.  One among them was a strong man, apparently of too solid virtues for this airy vocation.  His expression was melancholic, his manner depressed.  He was leashed to a vile white dog, loathsomely fat, fiendishly ill-natured, gloatingly intractable toward his despised conductor.

At a corner nearest to his apartment house the dogman turned down a side street, hoping for fewer witnesses to his ignominy.  The surfeited beast waddled before him, panting with spleen and the labour of motion.

Suddenly the dog stopped.  A tall, brown, long-coated, wide-brimmed man stood like a Colossus blocking the sidewalk and declaring: 

“Well, I’m a son of a gun!”

“Jim Berry!” breathed the dogman, with exclamation points in his voice.

“Sam Telfair,” cried Wide-Brim again, “you ding-basted old willy-walloo, give us your hoof!”

Their hands clasped in the brief, tight greeting of the West that is death to the hand-shake microbe.

“You old fat rascal!” continued Wide-Brim, with a wrinkled brown smile; “it’s been five years since I seen you.  I been in this town a week, but you can’t find nobody in such a place.  Well, you dinged old married man, how are they coming?”

Something mushy and heavily soft like raised dough leaned against Jim’s leg and chewed his trousers with a yeasty growl.

“Get to work,” said Jim, “and explain this yard-wide hydrophobia yearling you’ve throwed your lasso over.  Are you the pound-master of this burg?  Do you call that a dog or what?”

“I need a drink,” said the dogman, dejected at the reminder of his old dog of the sea.  “Come on.”

Hard by was a cafe.  ’Tis ever so in the big city.

They sat at a table, and the bloated monster yelped and scrambled at the end of his leash to get at the cafe cat.

“Whiskey,” said Jim to the waiter.

“Make it two,” said the dogman.

“You’re fatter,” said Jim, “and you look subjugated.  I don’t know about the East agreeing with you.  All the boys asked me to hunt you up when I started.  Sandy King, he went to the Klondike.  Watson Burrel, he married the oldest Peters girl.  I made some money buying beeves, and I bought a lot of wild land up on the Little Powder.  Going to fence next fall.  Bill Rawlins, he’s gone to farming.  You remember Bill, of course—­he was courting Marcella—­excuse me, Sam—­I mean the lady you married, while she was teaching school at Prairie View.  But you was the lucky man.  How is Missis Telfair?”