“He’d gripe. He don’t like foolin’ around. He wants to git on. You always git a partner got notions.”

The other tramp belched. Harris laid his hand on the horn.

“Hurry back,” said the car-hop, opening a heart-shaped pocket over her heart and dropping the tip courteously within.

“Aw river!” sang out the man with the guitar.

As they pulled out into the road again, the other man began to lift a beer bottle, and stared beseechingly, with his mouth full, at the man with the guitar.

“Drive back, mister. Sobby forgot to give her back her bottle. Drive back.”

“Too late,” said Harris rather firmly, speeding on into Dulcie, thinking, I was about to take directions from him.

Harris stopped the car in front of the Dulcie Hotel on the square.

“’Preciated it,” said the man, taking up his guitar.

“Wait here.”

They stood on the walk, one lighted by the street light, the other in the shadow of the statue of the Confederate soldier, both caved in and giving out an odor of dust, both sighing with obedience.

Harris went across the yard and up the one step into the hotel.

Mr. Gene, the proprietor, a white-haired man with little dark freckles all over his face and hands, looked up and shoved out his arm at the same time.

“If he ain’t back.” He grinned. “Been about a month to the day—I was just remarking.”

“Mr. Gene, I ought to go on, but I got two fellows out front. O.K., but they’ve just got nowhere to sleep tonight, and you know that little back porch.”

“Why, it’s a beautiful night out!” bellowed Mr. Gene, and he laughed silently.

“They’d get fleas in your bed,” said Harris, showing the back of his hand. “But you know that old porch. It’s not so bad. I slept out there once, I forget how.”

The proprietor let his laugh out like a flood. Then he sobered abruptly.

“Sure. O.K.,” he said. “Wait a minute—Mike’s sick. Come here, Mike, it’s just old Harris passin’ through.”

Mike was an ancient collie dog. He rose from a quilt near the door and moved over the square brown rug, stiffly, like a table walking, and shoved himself between the men, swinging his long head from Mr. Gene’s hand to Harris’s and bearing down motionless with his jaw in Harris’s palm.

“You sick, Mike?” asked Harris.

“Dyin’ of old age, that’s what he’s doin’!” blurted the proprietor as if in anger.

Harris began to stroke the dog, but the familiarity in his hands changed to slowness and hesitancy. Mike looked up out of his eyes.

“His spirit’s gone. You see?” said Mr. Gene pleadingly.

“Say, look,” said a voice at the front door.

“Come in, Cato, and see poor old Mike,” said Mr. Gene.