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