deeper happiness of knowing her friendship-famine was appeased at
last.

The walk was long for various reasons--partly because, in her
frisking gyrations, Lass was forever tangling the new chain
around Dick's thin ankles; partly because he stopped, every block
or so, to pat her or to give her further lessons in the art of
shaking hands. Also there were admiring boy-acquaintances along
the way, to whom the wonderful pet must be exhibited.

At last Dick turned in at the gate of a cheap bungalow on a cheap
street--a bungalow with a discouraged geranium plot in its
pocket-handkerchief front yard, and with a double line of drying
clothes in the no larger space behind the house.

As Dick and his chum rounded the house, a woman emerged from
between the two lines of flapping sheets, whose hanging she had
been superintending. She stopped at sight of her son and the dog.

"Oh!" she commented with no enthusiasm at all. "Well, you did it,
hey? I was hoping you'd have better sense, and spend your check
on a nice new suit or something. He's kind of pretty, though,"
she went on, the puppy's friendliness and beauty wringing the
word of grudging praise from her. "What kind of a dog is he? And
you're sure he isn't savage, aren't you?"

"Collie," answered Dick proudly. "Pedigreed collie! You bet she
isn't savage, either. Why, she's an angel. She minds me already.
See--shake hands, Lass!" "Lass!" ejaculated Mrs. Hazen. "'SHE!'
Dick, you don't mean to tell me you've gone and bought yourself