“Oh, if there were only a home for such lost ones!” he must have thought; but there was none, and again the hungry and wet dog travelled on. A wagon soon passed with two men in it, and Douglas followed, hoping it would lead to a home for him. “Whip him off,” said one of the men to the other. “We’ve got two dogs already, and my wife would never allow a third,” and they brandished the whip in the rear and drove on. Douglas crawled under a tree, and rolling himself as nearly as he could into a round ball for warmth finally fell asleep. In the morning he started again on his toilsome journey. He was lame now and half sick. Soon the houses were nearer together, and Douglas realized that he was coming into a city. He did not know there was little room for dogs in an overcrowded, fashionable city. There was little green grass to roam over, and the rushing world did not want the bother of animals. Perhaps, however, where there were so many people there would be some kind hearts, he thought. He crept along and looked into the window of a restaurant. There was a boiled ham in the window, cake, pies, and other attractive things. He wagged his tail a little, and looked into a man’s face as he went in, but the man paid no attention. Then a young lady passed, and she said, “Poor dog!” but went on. Douglas walked away and lay down in front of a store, but a man came and said, “Get out! The ladies will be afraid of you.” Douglas looked no longer the petted, handsome creature of several days before. The dust had settled in his black hair, which looked rough and coarse. He was thin and dejected. An unthinking boy chased him, and threw something at him, and as he was too peaceable to resent it he hurried along an alley and tried to hide up a stairway. A big red-faced man came out of a room at the head of the stairs and kicked him down the steps. Douglas ran into a shoe-store. Three men cornered him with a broom and a pole, and one man, braver than the others, put a cloth over his head, and then seized him by the hind legs and threw him into the street. Then somebody on the sidewalk said, “That dog acts strangely. He must be mad!” That was enough to excite the passers-by, who had read in the papers various accounts of supposed cases of rabies. “He is weak,” said one person, “and he totters.” “He is frothing at the mouth,” said another. A boot-black ran after him and threw his box at the thoroughly frightened animal. A crowd gathered, and ran and shouted. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” was the eager cry. Douglas did indeed froth at the mouth from excessive running. A lady hurried along and said, “Let me have the dog. He is not mad, but has lost his owner. Frothing at the mouth is not a sign of hydrophobia, as the best physicians will tell you.” “No, madam,” said a looker-on. “Don’t touch the dog. We men will not allow you to be bitten.”