"Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im,
Rover!" and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the
street to the newest excitement.

Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. "I was saving it for
tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?" The long
ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy
daintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into
the best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presided
over by a woman dealer.

"Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play," she told him
courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.

"Ho! Ho! Barstow," roared Copper-down Hicks. "That's one on you! The
madam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the green
cloth for a livin'."

"It is monsieur's toilette zat 'ave cause ze mistake. I have now better
observe he's face. He is welcome."

"Don't think your friend can sit in, though," observed Champer-down,
grinning broadly.

Anthony turned. The donkey had followed him in, and was standing just
behind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showing
in every contour of his shaggy body.

"I have consorted with many of his kind," said Anthony, smiling, "and I
prefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise,