"Oh!" exclaimed Gertrude Brock under her breath, "look at that poor

fellow asleep in the rain. Allen?"

Allen Harrison, ahead, was struggling to hold his umbrella upright

while he rolled a cigarette. He turned as he passed the paper across

his lips.

"Throw your coat over him, Allen."

Harrison pasted the paper roll, and putting it to his mouth felt for

his matchcase. "Throw my coat over him!"

"Yes."

Allen took out a match. "Well, I like that. That's like you,

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Gertrude. Suppose you throw your coat over him."

Gertrude looked silently at her companion. There is a moment when

women should be humored; not all men are fortunate enough to recognize

it. Louise, still walking ahead, called, "Come on," but Gertrude did

not move.

"Allen, throw your coat over the poor fellow," she urged. "You

wouldn't let your dog lie like that in the rain."

"But, Gertrude--do me the kindness"--he passed his umbrella to her that

he might better manage the lighting--"he's not my dog."

If she made answer it was only in the expression of her eyes. She

handed the umbrella back, flung open her long coat and slipped it from

her shoulders. With the heavy garment in her hands she stepped from

her path toward the sleeper and noticed for the first time an utterly

disreputable-looking dog lying beside him in the weeds. The dog's long

hair was bedraggled to the color of the mud he curled in, and as he

opened his eyes without raising his head, Gertrude hesitated; but his

tail spoke a kindly greeting. He knew no harm was meant and he watched

unconcernedly while, determined not to recede from her impulse,

Gertrude stepped hastily to the sleeper's side and dropped her coat

over his shoulders.

Louise was too far ahead to notice the incident. After breakfast she

asked Gertrude what the matter was.

"Nothing. Allen and I had our first quarrel this morning."

As she spoke, the train, high in the air, was creeping over the Spider

bridge.




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