"Got to sell my dogs, eh?
Turned traitor, have you, Mr.
Temple, and gone back on your best friends?
By God! I wonder what will come next ?" He strode across the room, rang for Todd, and bending down loosened a collar from Dandy's neck, on which his own name was engraved, "St.George Wilmot Temple, Esquire." "Esquire, eh ?" he muttered, reading the plate.

"What a damned lie! Property of a pauper living on pawnshops and a bill collector! Nice piece of business, St.George--fine record for your blood and breeding! Ah, Todd--that you?
Well, take them downstairs and send word to Mr.Floyd's man to call for them to-night, and when you come back I'll have a letter ready for you.

Come here, you rascals, and let me hug one or two of you.

Good Floe--good doggie." Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him.

"Take them away, Todd," he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
Half an hour later there followed a short note, written on one of his few remaining sheets of English paper, addressed to the new owner, in which he informed that gentleman that he bespoke for his late companions the same care and attention which he had always given them himself, and which they so richly deserved, and which he felt sure they would continue to receive while in the service of his esteemed and honored correspondent.