His coat was thin--so thin that his skin showed through in patches. And the skin was thin--so thin that the bones almost pricked through in a mute appeal to the public. He walked the streets until his four little feet dragged with weariness and he often sat down upon his haunches to rest. When he stopped people noticed him and many turned as they went past, watching him--he was so pitiable a sight. "Mangy dog," somebody said, but he was more than that. He was lost and he was starving. He was so needy that he had forsaken his alley haunts and had come up to the boulevards where was greater prosperity, sunshine, cleanliness, and perhaps love toward man and beast. In his walks he chanced near the lake and paced the viaduct that leads out upon the pier. He even went on the pier and looked down into the dark water as many despairing men and women have looked. It seemed easy to fall in, but he turned back and walked away. He had learned that if he kept moving the police and guards did not poke at him with their clubs. In crossing Michigan avenue he had to watch his chances, for the rubber tires of the carriages made no warning sound on the asphalt. And then he came to Wabash--the noise of the elevated and surface trains, and of the trucks and drays was so confusing that he had need of more care than ever. At length he reached State street and sat down to rest. Lizzie and Mattie were there before him. They, too, were acquainted with alley ways, though they were not personally acquainted with Whitey. Evidently they had found nourishment there that Whitey had missed, for Lizzie was decidedly fat and Mattie was fairly presentable. Lizzie wore a faded worsted skirt poorly joined to a cotton shirt-waist with a green silk belt. Her short, fair hair was curled and tied with a green ribbon and her airy straw hat was bright with flowers. Other little girls of better fortunes had worn the things and had extracted their freshness and much of their beauty. But Lizzie felt quite dressed up beside her friend who wore only a simple calico gown and plain straw hat. She led Mattie from window to window, pointing out precious articles and rare jewels, quite as if she had purse connections with them. The girls glanced at Whitey as he passed. "Poor little dog!" Mattie said. "Yes," returned Lizzie, "I should think the policeman would shoot him." "Why?" queried Mattie in surprise. "Oh, he's so bad off." Whitey was moving slowly. He was rested and he thought to go on. Somebody in a confectionery store noticed the girls. "Mamma, I do believe that's my old belt that I threw in the rags one day, for there's the cross I made on it at school with ink." "Nonsense," said the lady. "And, oh, mamma, look at the poor dog!" Of all the people who were passing four at least were interested in Whitey. Alley and avenue--but the alley folks first forgot him. They went back to their diamonds.