TAG; OR, THE CHIEN BOULE DOG
“Who?” asked they in one breath, and their hearts sank. In the careless joy of the day they had almost forgotten Bateese.
“Your kid,” answered Josephine excitedly. “He ain’t hardly got any clothes left on him an’ he won’t come out.” She pointed to a flight of steps leading to the cellar of a deserted house, and, simultaneously, there came a wail therefrom; a long wail as of much pent suffering and sorrow too great to be borne. Pat and Patty alighted and hurried to the spot. Crouching against a cellar door, with tear-stained countenance raised imploringly, was the luckless Bateese; his coat was gone, his little shirt hung in shreds, his “half-long” gray trousers were spattered with mud and torn from hip to ankle on one side, and a much swollen under lip added the finishing touch to his forlorn and battered appearance. At his feet lay the ever-faithful Cairlo, whose
