They were all in his arms, their cold noses snuggled under his warm chin.  But this time he didn’t care what they did to his clothes—­nor what he did to them.  He was alone; Todd had gone down to the kitchen—­only he and the four companions so dear to his heart.  “Come here, you imp of the devil,” he continued, rubbing Floe’s ears—­he loved her best—­pinching her nose until her teeth showed; patting her flanks, crooning over her as a woman would over a child, talking to himself all the time.  “I wonder if Floyd will be good to them!  If I thought he wouldn’t I’d rather starve than—­No—­I reckon it’s all right—­he’s got plenty of room and plenty of people to look after them.”  Then he rose from his chair and drew his hand across his forehead.  “Got to sell my dogs, eh?  Turned traitor, have you, Mr. Temple, and gone back on your best friends?  By God!  I wonder what will come next?” He strode across the room, rang for Todd, and bending down loosened a collar from Dandy’s neck, on which his own name was engraved, “St. George Wilmot Temple, Esquire.”  “Esquire, eh?” he muttered, reading the plate.  “What a damned lie!  Property of a pauper living on pawnshops and a bill collector!  Nice piece of business, St. George—­fine record for your blood and breeding!  Ah, Todd—­that you?  Well, take them downstairs and send word to Mr. Floyd’s man to call for them to-night, and when you come back I’ll have a letter ready for you.  Come here, you rascals, and let me hug one or two of you.  Good Floe—­good doggie.”  Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him.  “Take them away, Todd,” he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Half an hour later there followed a short note, written on one of his few remaining sheets of English paper, addressed to the new owner, in which he informed that gentleman that he bespoke for his late companions the same care and attention which he had always given them himself, and which they so richly deserved, and which he felt sure they would continue to receive while in the service of his esteemed and honored correspondent.  This he sealed in wax and stamped with his crest; and this was duly delivered by Todd—­and so the painful incident had come to an end.

The dogs disposed of, there still remained to him another issue to meet—­the wages he owed Jemima.  Although she had not allowed the subject to pass her lips—­not even to Todd—­St. George knew that she needed the money—­she being a free woman and her earnings her own—­not a master’s.  He had twice before determined to set aside enough money from former cash receipts to liquidate Jemima’s debt—­once from the proceeds of Gadgem’s gun and again from what Floyd paid him for the dogs—­but Todd had insisted with such vehemence that he needed it for the marketing, that he had let it go over.