All along the route are dogs. Indeed, routes are distinguished by their dogs. Mean routes are those that have terraces and mean dogs; good routes--where the houses are close together and the dogs run out and wag their tails. Though Stubby's greater difficulty came through the wagging tails; he carried in a collie neighbourhood, and all collies seemed consumed with mighty ambitions to have routes. If you spoke to them--and how could you _help_ speaking to a collie when he came bounding out to you that way?--you had an awful time chasing him back, and when he got lost--and it seemed collies spent most of their time getting lost--the woman would put her head out next morning and want to know if you had coaxed her dog away. Some of the fellows had dogs that went with them on their routes. One day one of them asked Stubby why he didn't have a dog and he replied in surly fashion that he didn't have one 'cause he didn't want one. If he wanted one, he guessed he'd have one. And there was no one within ear-shot old enough or wise enough--or tender enough?--to know from the meanness of Stubby's tone, and by his evil scowl, that his heart was just breaking to own a dog. One day a new dog appeared along the route. He was yellow and looked like a cheap edition of a bull-dog. He was that kind of dog most accurately described by saying it is hard to describe him, the kind you say is just dog--and everybody knows. He tried to follow Stubby; not in the trusting, bounding manner of the collies--not happily, but hopingly. Stubby, true to the ethics of his profession, chased him back where he had come from. That there might be nothing whatever on his conscience, he even threw a stone after him. Stubby was an expert in throwing things at dogs. He could seem to just miss them and yet never hit them. The next day it happened again; but just as he had a clod poised for throwing, a window went up and a woman called: “For pity _sake_, little boy, don't chase him back _here_.” “Why--why, ain't he yours?” called Stubby. “Mercy, _no_. We can't chase him away.” “Who's is he?” demanded Stubby. “Why, he's nobody's! He just hangs around. I wish you'd coax him away.” Well, that was a _new_ one! And then all in a heap it rushed over Stubby that this dog who was nobody's dog could, if he coaxed him away--and the woman _wanted_ him coaxed away--be his dog. And because that idea had such a strange effect on him he sang out, in off-hand fashion: “Oh, all right, I'll take him away and drown him for you! “Oh, little _boy_,” called the woman, “why, don't _drown_ him!” “Oh, all right, I'll shoot him then!” called obliging Stubby, whistling for the dog--while all morning long the woman grieved over having sent a helpless little dog away with that perfectly _brutal_ paper boy!