The Anarchist: His Dog

by Susan Glaspell

　　Stubby had a route, and that was how he happened to get a dog. For thebenefit of those who have never carried papers it should be thrownin that having a route means getting up just when there is reallysome fun in sleeping, lining up at the Leader office--maybehaving a scrap with the fellow who says you took his place in theline--getting your papers all damp from the press and starting forthe outskirts of the city. Then you double up the paper in theway that will cause all possible difficulty in undoubling and hurlit with what force you have against the front door. It is good tohave a route, for you at least earn your salt, so your father can'tsay that any more. If he does, you know it isn't so.When you have a route, you whistle. All the fellows whistle. Theymay not feel like it, but it is the custom--as could be sworn to bymany sleepy citizens. And as time goes on you succeed in acquiringthe easy manner of a brigand.Stubby was little and everything about him seemed sawed off just asecond too soon,--his nose, his fingers, and most of all, his hair.His head was a faithful replica of a chestnut burr. His hair did notlie down and take things easy. It stood up--and out!--gentle ladiescouldn't possibly have let their hands sink into it--as we are toldthey do--for the hands just wouldn't sink. They'd have to float. And alas, gentle ladies didn't particularly want their hands to sink into it. There was not that about Stubby's short person to cause the hands of gentle ladies to move instinctively to his head. Stubbybristled. That is, he appeared to bristle. Inwardly, Stubby yearned,though he would have swung into his very best brigand manner on thespot were you to suggest so offensive a thing. Just to look atStubby you'd never in a thousand years guess what a funny feeling hehad sometimes when he got to the top of the hill where his routebegan and could see a long way down the river and the town curled inon the other side. Sometimes when the morning sun was shiningthrough a mist--making things awful queer--some of the mist got intoStubby's squinty little eyes. After the mist behaved that way healways whistled so rakishly and threw his papers with suchabandonment that people turned over in their beds and mutteredthings about having that little heathen of a paper boy shot.All along the route are dogs. Indeed, routes are distinguished bytheir dogs. Mean routes are those that have terraces and mean dogs;good routes--where the houses are close together and the dogs runout and wag their tails. Though Stubby's greater difficulty camethrough the wagging tails; he carried in a collie neighbourhood, andall collies seemed consumed with mighty ambitions to have routes. Ifyou spoke to them--and how could you help speaking to acollie when he came bounding out to you that way?--you had an awfultime chasing him back, and when he got lost--and it seemed colliesspent most of their time getting lost--the woman would put her headout next morning and want to know if you had coaxed her dog away.Some of the fellows had dogs that went with them on their routes.One day one of them asked Stubby why he didn't have a dog and hereplied in surly fashion that he didn't have one 'cause he didn'twant one. If he wanted one, he guessed he'd have one.And there was no one within ear-shot old enough or wise enough--ortender enough?--to know from the meanness of Stubby's tone, and byhis evil scowl, that his heart was just breaking to own a dog.One day a new dog appeared along the route. He was yellow and lookedlike a cheap edition of a bull-dog. He was that kind of dog mostaccurately described by saying it is hard to describe him, the kindyou say is just dog--and everybody knows.He tried to follow Stubby; not in the trusting, bounding manner ofthe collies--not happily, but hopingly. Stubby, true to the ethicsof his profession, chased him back where he had come from. Thatthere might be nothing whatever on his conscience, he even threw astone after him. Stubby was an expert in throwing things at dogs. Hecould seem to just miss them and yet never hit them.The next day it happened again; but just as he had a clod poised forthrowing, a window went up and a woman called: "For pitysake, little boy, don't chase him back here.""Why--why, ain't he yours?" called Stubby."Mercy, no. We can't chase him away.""Who's is he?" demanded Stubby."Why, he's nobody's! He just hangs around. I wish you'd coax himaway."Well, that was a new one! And then all in a heap it rushedover Stubby that this dog who was nobody's dog could, if he coaxedhim away--and the woman wanted him coaxed away--be his dog.And because that idea had such a strange effect on him he sang out,in off-hand fashion: "Oh, all right, I'll take him away and drownhim for you!"Oh, little boy," called the woman, "why, don't drownhim!""Oh, all right, I'll shoot him then!" called obliging Stubby,whistling for the dog--while all morning long the woman grieved overhaving sent a helpless little dog away with that perfectlybrutal paper boy!Stubby's mother was washing. She looked up from her tubs on the backporch to say, "Wish you'd take that bucket--" then seeing what wasslinking behind her son, straightway assumed the role of destinywith, "Git out o' here!"Stubby snapped his fingers behind his back as much as to say, "Waita minute.""A woman gave him to me," he said to his mother."Gave him to you?" she scoffed. "I sh' think she would!"Then something happened that had not happened many times in Stubby'sshort lifetime. He acknowledged his feelings."I'd like to keep him. I'd like to have a dog."His mother shook her hands and the flying suds seemed expressing herscorn. "Huh! That ugly good-for-nothing thing?"The dog had edged in between Stubby's feet and crouched there. "Hecould go with me on my route," said Stubby. "He'd kind of be companyfor me."And when he had said that he knew all at once just how lonesome hehad been sometimes on his route, how he had wanted something to"kind of be company" for him.His face twitched as he stooped down to pat the dog. Mrs. Lynchlooked at her son--youngest of her five. Not the hardness of herheart but the hardness of her life had made her unpractised inmoments of tenderness. Something in the way Stubby was patting thedog suggested to her that Stubby was a "queer one." He waskind of little to be carrying papers all by himself.Stubby looked up. "He could eat what's thrown away."That was an error in diplomacy. The woman's face hardened. "Mightylittle'll be thrown away this winter," she muttered.But just then Mrs. Johnson appeared on the other side of the fenceand began hanging up her clothes and with that Mrs. Lynch saw herway to justify herself in indulging her son. Mrs. Johnson and Mrs.Lynch had "had words." "You just let him stay around, Stubby," shecalled, and you would have supposed from her tone it was Stubby whowas on the other side of the fence, "maybe he'll keep theneighbour's chickens out! Them that ain't got chickens o' their owndon't want to be bothered with the neighbours'!"That was how it happened that he stayed; and no one but Stubbyknew--and possibly Stubby didn't either--how it happened that he wasnamed Hero. It would seem that Hero should be a noble St. Bernard,or a particularly mean-looking bulldog, not a stocky, shapeless,squint-eyed yellow dog with one ear bitten half off and one legbuilt on an entirely different plan from its fellow legs. PossiblyStubby's own spiritual experiences had suggested to him that youweren't necessarily the way you looked.The chickens were pretty well kept out, though no one ever saw Herodoing any of it. Perhaps Hero had been too long associated withchasing to desire any part in it--even with roles reversed. IfStubby could help it, no one really saw Stubby doing the chasingeither; he became skilled in chasing when he did not appear to bechasing; then he would get Hero to barking and turn to his motherwith, "Guess you don't see so many chickens round nowadays."The fellows in the line jeered at Hero at first, but they soon tiredof it when Stubby said he didn't want the cur but his mother madehim stay around to keep the chickens out. He was a fine chicken dog,Stubby grudgingly admitted. He couldn't keep him from following,said Stubby, so he just let him come. Sometimes when they werewaiting in line Stubby made ferocious threats at Hero. He was goingto break his back and wring his head off and do other heartlessthings which for some reason he never started in right then andthere to accomplish.It was different when they were alone--and they were alone a gooddeal. Stubby's route wasn't nearly so long after he had Hero to gowith him. When winter came and five o'clock was dark and cold forstarting out it was pretty good to have Hero trotting at his heels.And Hero always wanted to go; it was never so rainy nor so cold thatthat yellow dog seemed to think he would rather stay home by thefire. Then Hero was always waiting for him when he came home fromschool. Stubby would sing out, "Hello, cur!" and the tone was suchthat Hero did not grasp that he was being insulted. Sometimes whenthere was nobody about, Stubby picked Hero up in his arms andsqueezed him--Stubby had not had a large experience with squeezing.At those times Hero would lick Stubby's face and whimper a littlelove whimper and such were the workings of Stubby's heart and mindthat that made him of quite as much account as if he really hadchased the chickens. Stubby, who had seen the way dogs can look atyou out of their eyes, was not one to say of a dog, "What good ishe?"But it seemed there were such people. There were even people whothought you oughtn't to have a dog to love and to love you if youweren't one of those rich people who could pay two dollars and ahalf a year for the luxury.Stubby first heard of those people one night in June. The father ofthe Lynch family was sitting in the back yard reading the paper whenHero and Stubby came running in from the alley. It was one of thosemoments when Hero, forgetting the bleakness of his youth, abandonedhimself to the joy of living. He was tearing round and round Stubby,barking, when Stubby's father called out: "Here!--shut up there, youcur. You better lie low. You're going to be shot the first ofAugust."Stubby, and as regards the joy of living Hero had done as much forStubby as Stubby for Hero, came to a halt. The fun and frolic justdied right out of him and he stood there staring at his father, whohad turned the page and was settling himself to a new horror. Atlast Stubby spoke. "Why's he going to be shot on the first ofAugust?" he asked in a tight little voice.His father looked up. "Why's he going to be shot? You got any twodollars and a half to pay for him?"He laughed as though that were a joke. Well, it was something of ajoke. Stubby got ten cents a week out of his paper money. The resthe "turned in."Then he went back to his paper. There was another long pause beforeStubby asked, in that tight queer little voice: "What'd I have topay two dollars and a half for? Nobody owns him."His parent stirred scornfully. "Suppose you never heard of a dogtax, did you? S'pose they don't learn you nothing like that atschool?"Yes, Stubby did know that dogs had to have checks, but he hadn'tthought anything about that in connection with Hero. He venturedanother question. "You have to have 'em for all dogs, even if youjust picked 'em up on the street and took care of 'em when nobodyelse would?""You bet you do," his parent assured him genially. "You pay your dogtax or the policeman comes on the first of August and shoots yourdog."With that he dismissed it for good, burying himself in his paper.For a minute the boy stood there in silence. Then he walked slowlyround the house and sat down where his father couldn't see him. Herofollowed--it was a way Hero had. The dog sat down beside the boy andafter a couple of minutes the boy's arm stole furtively around himand they sat there very still for a long time.As nobody but Hero paid much attention to him, nobody save Heronoticed how quiet and queer Stubby was for the next three days. Heromust have noticed it, for he was quiet and queer too. He followedwherever Stubby would let him, and every time he got a chance hewould nestle up to him and look into his face--that way even curdogs have of doing when they fear something is wrong.At the end of three days Stubby, his little freckled face set andgrim, took his stand in front of his father and came right out with:"I want to keep one week's paper money to pay Hero's tax."His father's chair had been tilted back against a tree. Now it camedown with a thud. "Oh, you do, do you?""I can earn the other fifty cents at little jobs.""You can, can you? Now ain't you smart!"The tone brought the blood to Stubby's face. "I think I got a rightto," he said, his voice low.The man's face, which had been taunting, grew ugly. "Look a-here,young man, none o' your lip!"The tears rushed to Stubby's eyes but he stumbled on: "I guessHero's got a right to some of my paper money when he goes with meevery day on my route."At that his father stared for a minute and then burst into a loudlaugh. Blinded with tears, the boy turned to the house.After she had gone to bed that night Stubby's mother heard a soundfrom the alcove at the head of the stairs where her youngest childslept. As the sound kept on she got out of her bed and went toStubby's cot."Look here," she said, awkwardly but not unkindly, "this won't do.We're poor folks, Freddie" (it was only once in a while she calledhim that), "all we can do to live these times--we can't pay no dogtax."As Stubby did not speak she added: "I know you've taken to the dog,but just the same you ain't to feel hard to your pa. He can't helpit--and neither can I. Things is as they is--and nobody can helpit."As, despite this bit of philosophy Stubby was still gulping backsobs, she added what she thought a master stroke in consolation."Now you just go right to sleep, and if they come to take this dogaway maybe you can pick up another one in the fall."The sobs suddenly stopped and Stubby stared at her. And what he saidafter a long stare was: "I guess there ain't no use in you and metalking about it.""That's right," said she, relieved; "now you go right off to sleep."And she left him, never dreaming why Stubby had seen there was nouse talking about it.Nor did he talk about it; but a change came over Stubby's funnylittle person in the next few days. The change was particularlyconcerned with his jaw, though there was something different, too,in the light in his eyes as he looked straight ahead, and somethingdifferent in his voice when he said: "Come on, Hero."He got so he could walk into a store and demand, in a hard littlevoice: "Want a boy to do anything for you?" and when they said, "Gotmore boys than we know what to do with, sonny," Stubby would say,"All right," and stalk sturdily out again. Sometimes they laughedand said: "What could you do?" and then Stubby would stalkout, but possibly a little less sturdily.Vacation came the next week, and still he had found nothing. Hisfather, however, had been more successful. He found a place wherethey wanted a boy to work in a yard a couple of hours in themorning. For that Stubby was to get a dollar and a half a week. Butthat was to be turned in for his "keep." There were lots of mouthsto feed--as Stubby's mother was always calling to her neighbouracross the alley.But the yard gave Stubby an idea, and he earned some dimes and onequarter in the next week. Most folks thought he was too little--onekind lady told him he ought to be playing, not working--but therewere people who would let him take a big shears and cut grass aroundflower beds, and things like that. This he had to do afternoons,when he was supposed to be off playing, and when he came home hismother sometimes said some folks had it easy--playing around allday.It was now the first week in July and Stubby had a dollar and twentycents. It was getting to the point where he would wake in the nightand find himself sitting up in bed, hands clenched. He dreameddreams about how folks would let him live if he had ninety-ninecents but how he only had ninety-seven and a half, so they weregoing to shoot him.Then one day he found Mr. Stuart. He was passing the house afterhaving asked three people if they wanted a boy, and they didn't, andseemed so surprised at the idea of their wanting him that Stubby'sthroat was all tight, when Mr. Stuart sang out: "Say, boy, want alittle job?"It seemed at first it must be a joke--or a dream--anybody asking himif he wanted one, but the man was beckoning to him, so hepulled himself together and ran up the steps."Now here's a little package"--he took something out of the mailbox. "It doesn't belong here. It's to go to three-hundred-twoPleasant street. You take it for a dime?"Stubby nodded.As he was going down the steps the man called: "Say, boy, how'd youlike a steady job?"For the first minute it seemed pretty mean--making fun of a fellowthat way!"This will be here every day. Suppose you come each day, about thistime, and take it over there--not mentioning it to anybody."Stubby felt weak. "Why, all right," he managed to say."I'll give you fifty cents a week. That fair?""Yes, sir," said Stubby, doing some quick calculation."Then here goes for the first week"--and he handed him the otherforty cents.It was funny how fast the world could change! Stubby wanted torun--he hadn't been doing much running of late. He wanted to go homeand get Hero to go with him to Pleasant street, but didn't. No,sir, when you had a job you had to 'tend to things!Well, a person could do things, if he had to, thought Stubby. No usesaying you couldn't, you could, if you had to. He was back intune with life. He whistled; he turned up his collar in the oldrakish way; he threw a stick at a cat. Back home he jumped over thefence instead of going in the gate--lately he had actually beenusing the gate. And he cried, "Get out of my sight, you cur!" intones which, as Hero understood things, meant anything but gettingout of his sight.He was a little boy again. He slept at night as little boys sleep.He played with Hero along the route--taught him some new tricks. Hisjaw relaxed from its grown-upishness.It was funny about those Stuarts. Sometimes he saw Mr. Stuart, butnever anybody else; the place seemed shut up. But each day thelittle package was there, and every day he took it to Pleasantstreet and left it at the door there--that place seemed shut up,too.When it was well into the second week Stubby ventured to saysomething about the next fifty cents.The man fumbled in his pockets. Something in his face was familiarto experienced Stubby. It suggested a having to have two dollars anda half by August first and only having a dollar and a quarter stateof mind."I haven't got the change. Pay you at the end of next week for thewhole business. That all right?"Stubby considered. "I've got to have it before the first of August,"he said.At that the man laughed--funny kind of laugh, it was, and mutteredsomething. But he told Stubby he would have it before the first.It bothered Stubby. He wished the man had given it to himthen. He would rather get it each week and keep it himself. Alittle of the grown-up look stole back.After that he didn't see Mr. Stuart, and one day, a week or solater, the package was not in the box and a man who wore the kind ofclothes Stubby's father wore came around the house and asked himwhat he was doing.Stubby was wary. "Oh, I've got a little job I do for Mr. Stuart."The man laughed. "I had a little job I did for Mr. Stuart, too. Youpaid in advance?"Stubby pricked up his ears."'Cause if you ain't, I'd advise you to look out for a little jobsome'eres else."Then it came out. Mr. Stuart was broke; more than that, he was "offhis nut." Lots of people were doing little jobs for him--there wasno sense in any of them, and now he had suddenly been called out oftown!There was a trembly feeling through Stubby's insides, but outwardlyhe was bristling just like his hair bristled as he demanded: "Wheream I to get what's coming to me?""'Fraid you won't get it, sonny. We're all in the same boat." Helooked Stubby up and down and then added: "Kind of little for thatboat.""I got to have it!" cried Stubby. "I tell you, I gotto!"The man shook his head. "That cuts no ice. Hard luck, sonny,but we've got to take our medicine in this world. 'Taint no medicinefor kids, though," he muttered.Stubby's face just then was too much for him. He put his hand in hispocket and drew out a dime, saying: "There now. You run along andget you a soda and forget your troubles. It ain't always like this.You'll have better luck next time."But Stubby did not get the soda. He put the dime in his pocket andturned toward home. Something was the matter with his legs--theyacted funny about carrying him. He tried to whistle, but somethingwas the matter with his lips, too.Counting this dime, he now had a dollar and eighty cents, and it wasthe twenty-eighth day of July. "Thirty days has September--April,June and November--" he was saying to himself. Then July was one ofthe long ones. Well, that was a good thing! Been a great dealworse if July was a short one. Again he tried to whistle, and thattime did manage to pipe out a few shrill little notes.When Hero came running up the hill to meet him he slapped him on theback and cried, "Hello, Hero!" in tones fairly swaggering withbravado.That night he engaged his father in conversation--the phrase is welladapted to the way Stubby went about it. "How is it about--'boutthings like taxes"--Stubby crossed his knees and swung one foot toshow his indifference--"if you have almost enough--do theysometimes let you off?"--the detachment was a shade less perfect onthat last.His father laughed scoffingly. "Well, I guess not!""I thought maybe," said Stubby, "if a person had tried awfulhard--and had most enough--"Something inside him was all shaky, so he didn't go on. His fathersaid that trying didn't have anything to do with it.It was hard for Stubby not to sob out that he thought tryingought to have something to do with it, but he only made ahissing noise between his teeth that took the place of the whistlethat wouldn't come."Kind of seems," he resumed, "if a person would have had enough ifthey hadn't been beat out of it, maybe--if he done the best hecould--"His father snorted derisively and informed him that doing the bestyou could made no difference to the government; hard luck storiesdidn't go when it came to the laws of the land.Thereupon Stubby took a little walk out to the alley and spent aconsiderable time in contemplation of the neighbour's chicken-yard.When he came back he walked right up to his father and standingthere, feet planted, shoulders squared, wanted to know, in adesperate little voice: "If some one else was to give--say a dollarand eighty cents for Hero, could I take the other seventy out of mypaper money?"The man turned upon him roughly. "Uh-huh! That's it,is it? That's why you're getting so smart all of a suddenabout government! Look a-here. Just l'me tell you something. You'relucky if you git enough to eat this winter. Do you knowthere's talk of the factory shuttin' down? Dog tax! Whyyou're lucky if you git shoes."Stubby had turned away and was standing with his back to his father,hands in his pockets."And l'me tell you some'en else, young man. If you got any dollarand eighty cents, you give it to your mother!"As Stubby was turning the corner of the house he called after him:"How'd you like to have me get you an automobile?"He went doggedly from house to house the next afternoon, but nobodyhad any jobs. When Hero came running out to him that night he pattedhim, but didn't speak.That evening as they were sitting in the back yard--Stubby and Heroa little apart from the others--his father was discoursing with hisbrother about anarchists. They were getting commoner, his fatherthought. There were a good many of them at the shop. They didn'tcall themselves that, but that was what they were."Well, what is an anarchist, anyhow?" Stubby's mother wanted toknow."Why, an anarchist," her lord informed her, "is one that's againstthe government. He don't believe in the law and order. The real badanarchists shoot them that tries to enforce the laws of the land.Guess if you'd read the papers these days you'd know."Stubby's brain had been going round and round and these words caughtin it as it whirled. The government--the laws of the land--why, itwas the government and the laws of the land that were going to shootHero! It was the government--the laws of the land--that didn't carehow hard you had tried--didn't care whether you had beencheated--didn't care how you felt--didn't care about anythingexcept getting the money! His brain got hotter. Well, hedidn't believe in the government, either. He was one of thosepeople--those anarchists--that were against the laws of the land.He'd done the very best he could and now the government was goingto take Hero away from him just because he couldn't get--couldn'tget--that other seventy cents.Stubby's mother didn't hear her son crying that night. That wasbecause Stubby was successful in holding the pillow over his head.The next morning he looked in one of the papers he was carrying tosee what it said about anarchists. Sure enough, some place way offsomewhere, the anarchists had shot somebody that was trying toenforce the laws of the land. The laws of the land--that didn'tcare.That afternoon as Stubby tramped around looking for jobs he saw agood many boys playing with dogs. None of them seemed to be worryingabout whether their dogs had checks. To Stubby's hot little brainand sore little heart came the thought that they didn't love theirdogs any more than he loved Hero, either. But the government didn'tcare whether he loved Hero or not! Pooh!--what was that to thegovernment? All it cared about was getting the money. He stood for along time watching a boy giving his dog a bath. The dog was tryingto get away and the boy and another boy were having lots of funabout it. All of a sudden Stubby turned and ran away--ran down analley, ran through a number of alleys, just kept on running, blindedby the tears.And that night, in the middle of the night, that something in hishead going round and round, getting hotter and hotter, he decidedthat the only thing for him to do was to shoot the policeman whocame to take Hero away on the morning of August first--that would beday after to-morrow.All night long policemen with revolvers stood around his bed. Whenhis mother called him at half-past four he was shaking so he couldscarcely get into his clothes.On his way home from his route Stubby had to pass a police-station.He went on the other side of the street and stood there lookingacross. One of the policemen was playing with a dog!Suddenly he wanted to rush over and throw himself down at thatpoliceman's feet--sob out the story--ask him to please,please wait till he could get that other seventy cents.But just then the policeman got up and went in the station, andStubby was afraid to go in the police-station.That policeman complicated things for Stubby. Before that it hadbeen quite simple. The policeman would come to enforce the law ofthe land; but he did not believe in the law of the land, so he wouldjust kill the policeman. But it seemed a policeman wasn't just aperson who enforced the laws of the land. He was also a person whoplayed with a dog.After a whole day of walking around thinking about it--his eyesburning, his heart pounding--he decided that the thing to do was towarn the policeman by writing a letter. He did not know whether realanarchists warned them or not, but Stubby couldn't get reconciled tothe idea of killing a person without telling him you were going todo it. It seemed that even a policeman should be told--especially apoliceman who played with a dog.The following letter was pencilled by a shaking hand, late thatafternoon. It was written upon a barrel in the Lynch wood-shed, on apiece of wrapping paper, a bristly little head bending over it:To the Policeman who comes to take my dog 'cause I ain't got the twofifty--'cause I tried but could only get one eighty--'cause a manwas off his nut and didn't pay me what I earned--This is to tell you I am an anarchist and do not believe in thegovernment or the law and the order and will shoot you when youcome. I wouldn't a been an anarchist if I could a got the money andI tried to get it but I couldn't get it--not enough. I don't thinkthe government had ought to take things you like like I like Hero soI am against the government.Thought I would tell you first.Yours truly,F. LYNCH.I don't see how I can shoot you 'cause where would I get therevolver. So I will have to do it with the butcher knife. Folks aresometimes killed that way 'cause my father read it in the paper.If you wanted to take the one eighty and leave Hero till I can getthe seventy I will not do anything to you and would be very muchobliged.1113 Willow street.The letter was properly addressed and sealed--not for nothing hadStubby's teacher given those instructions in the art of letterwriting. The stamp he paid for out of the dime the man gave him toget a soda with--and forget his troubles.Now Bill O'Brien was on the desk at the police-station and MissMurphy of the Herald stood in with Bill. That was how it came aboutthat the next morning a fat policeman, an eager-looking girl and ayoung fellow with a kodak descended into the hollow to 1113 Willowstreet.A little boy peeped around the corner of the house--such awild-looking little boy--hair all standing up and eyes glittering. Ayellow dog ran out and barked. The boy darted out and grabbed thedog in his arms and in that moment the girl called to the man withthe black box: "Right now! Quick! Get him!"They were getting ready to shoot Hero! That box was the way thepolice did it! He must--oh, he must--must ... Boy and dogsank to the ground--but just the same the boy was shielding the dog!When Stubby had pulled himself together the policeman was holdingHero. He said that Hero was certainly a fine dog--he had a dog agood deal like him at home. And Miss Murphy--she was choking backsobs herself--knew how he could earn the seventy cents thatafternoon.In such wise do a good anarchist and a good story go down under thesame blow. Some of those sobs Miss Murphy choked back got into whatshe wrote about Stubby and his yellow dog and the next day citizenswith no sense of the dramatic sent money enough to check Herothrough life.At first Stubby's father said he had a good mind to lick him. Butsomething in the quality of Miss Murphy's journalism left a hazyfeeling of there being something remarkable about his son. Heconfided to his good wife that it wouldn't surprise him much ifStubby was some day President. Somebody had to be President, saidhe, and he had noticed it was generally those who in their youthfuldays did things that made lively reading in the newspapers.