TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
“Oh, then,” brightening, “of course he has a tag with his address somewhere about him. Those institutions always use something or that kind.” She fastened an X ray eye on Bateese as if to penetrate the innermost recesses of his plump person and discover this appendage.
“Why, of course, he had a tag on,” began Patty promptly, “but,” here her unruly lips curled up and a twinkle danced in her eye— “his dog—a chien boule dog he is—chewed it up, and so—”
The woman’s icy tones broke in,
“I would advise you to see the police about it, madam. I don’t care to be mixed up in anything of the kind.” Whereupon she drew herself up and walked resolutely away, leaving the astonished and indignant Patty to grasp Bateese’s hand and drag him back to where Pat was soothing his spirit with a good cigar
