"Git up, now, Jinnie," he would say. "It's time to git up. We've
got to make our coffee now and git some breakfast. I can see yuh,
lyin' there, pertendin' to be asleep. Come on, now! You've had
sleep enough. You've been sleepin' as long as I have."

Jennie would be watching him out of the corner of one loving eye,
her tail tap-tapping on the bed, her free ear going up and down.

When he was fully dressed, his face and hands washed, his old
string tie pulled around into a loose and convenient knot, his
hair brushed upward, Jennie would get up and jump demonstratively
about, as much as to say, "You see how prompt I am."

"That's the way," old Laughlin would comment. "Allers last. Yuh
never git up first, do yuh, Jinnie? Allers let yer old man do that,
don't you?"

On bitter days, when the car-wheels squeaked and one's ears and
fingers seemed to be in danger of freezing, old Laughlin, arrayed
in a heavy, dusty greatcoat of ancient vintage and a square hat,
would carry Jennie down-town in a greenish-black bag along with
some of his beloved "sheers" which he was meditating on. Only
then could he take Jennie in the cars. On other days they would
walk, for he liked exercise. He would get to his office as early
as seven-thirty or eight, though business did not usually begin
until after nine, and remain until four-thirty or five, reading
the papers or calculating during the hours when there were no
customers. Then he would take Jennie and go for a walk or to call
on some business acquaintance. His home room, the newspapers, the