"This is all through baggage for New York, miss," I heard him say; "they wouldn't put your dog in here." "Yes, they did--I am sure this is the car," I heard in the voice I knew so well; "and won't you get him out, please?
He must be terribly frightened." The man stooped down and unfastened my chain, grumbling to himself because I had not been put in another car.

"Some folks tumble a dog round as if he was a junk of coal," he said, patting me kindly.
I was nearly wild with delight to get with Miss Laura again, but I had barked so much, and pressed my neck so hard with my collar that my voice was all gone.

I fawned on her, and wagged myself about, and opened and shut my mouth, but no sound came out of it.
It made Miss Laura nervous.

She tried to laugh and cry at the same time, and then bit her lip hard, and said: "Oh, Joe, don't." "He's lost his bark, hasn't he ?" said the man, looking at me curiously.
"It is a wicked thing to confine an animal in a dark and closed car," said Miss Laura, trying to see her way down the steps through her tears.
The man put out his hand and helped her.

"He's not suffered much, miss," he said; "don't you distress yourself.