above the roar of the mountain torrent a grunt, then a sickening kind of a splash, and it was just after the splash that I felt dreadful and blamed John Wolfard. The dark night then frightened me and I ran into the warm store, and as I approached the stove I said to the proprietor who was there alone, “Open some sardines and dig out some crackers and put in a few sweet ones for such a job as this.”
“Now, remember,” said Wolfard, “I don’t want to know what’s happened.” He opened some old sardines. I never have seen the same pictures on cans since, and he brought cheese as well as crackers, and while I ate we listened to the pattering rain. A stranger or two from the streets came and all commented on the high way I was living. John was smoking extra heavy and the whole back part of the store was so thick with smoke that you had to shove it away to get room to breathe. I had been eating about fifteen minutes when I heard a licking sound on the floor by my chair. Looking down I saw old Bob there licking himself dry. We all saw it at the same time, and the first thought that struck me was to quicken the pace of eating so fast that when John wanted an
