"Bulldog never bite a child," observed the blacksmith.

But Lockwin had time only to take his baby between his legs. "Please
call in your dog," he said to the blacksmith. "Please call him in.
Please call him in."

The dog was recalled. The child smiled, and yet he felt he had been
ill served. The little hanging pocket testified that Lockwin must
tarry in that hateful locality and pick up the treasure and documents.

Trembling in every joint, he called at the house of an acquaintance.
"I dislike to keep you here," said the friend, "if you are afraid of
the whooping-cough. We have it here in the house."

It seemed to David Lockwin that the city was an inhospitable place for
childhood. The man and child traveled on and on. They reached the toy
store. They stood before the soda fountain. They bought bat and ball.

It was too far. They rode by street car three miles in order to return
the half mile. The child was asleep when they reached home.

"I drank sewer water," he observed to the housekeeper, speaking of the
soda fountain, for sewer gas is a thing for Chicagoans to discuss with
much learning.

So Davy and David went on the rear lot to play ball. The neighboring
tribe offered their services for two-old-cat. The little white boy
with the golden curls made a great hit.