TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
By some process of mental telepathy Bateese seemed to divine their meaning.
“Cairlo!” he cried, stopping short and looking about anxiously.
“Come, come, Bateese. Cairlo is all right. We are going to have a nice ride in a cab, and lunch—dejeuner,” coaxed the bridegroom.
But Bateese was obdurate, his face puckered, “Cairlo!” he cried again, “Don’ lak no dejeuner. Wan’ mon chien boule dog.”
They attempted to drag him away and he threw his small body flat on the floor and yelled with anguish. A crowd began to collect and Pat descried the station master looking their way.
“Get up, you little devil!” he muttered, at the same time jerking him to his feet. “I’ll get your confounded pup,” and he strode off in the direction of the baggage room.
Some moments later, as the now smiling
