“There was Stubbs. She was right enough, but it makes me sick to look at a scarecrow. And old mother Morey who always turned up with bruises on Monday morning. And Mrs.--What’s-her-name--the woman who brought a perambulator full of babies. By the way, have you heard about Wood? He’s frightfully down on his luck. The last thing he did was to steal the landlady’s perambulator. When he got to the pawnbroker’s the blessed thing wouldn’t go through the door, so he had to wheel it back. And the Cox woman--oh! I forget their confounded names. They are all alike. Stay as long as it suits them. Rob you right and left. They take their money some Saturday and you never see them again. If they can swindle you out of sixpence or a shilling by pretending to have no change, but promising to bring it on Monday, they will. The last one--before this woman--had me that way. I was fool enough to give her half a sovereign. That was four bob to the bad, for her money was only six. Said she lived in Hand Court, over the old clothes shop. I’ve been down there and no one has ever heard of her. I went with Wood. He was going to sell some old trousers, but they only offered eighteenpence for two pairs, so he’s pawned them and sold the ticket--it’s a much better plan. “There was the woman Sol flew at. He is the gentlest dog in the whole world. But you mustn’t shake your fist at a deerhound; it puts their blood up sooner than anything. I warned her, but she would do it. The husband came round half drunk and bullied. I gave him five shillings to get rid of him. They all object to the dog. It was because of the dog that I left my lodgings in Wilkinson Street, Tooting. And I’d rather throw stones at my grandmother than part with Sol. He saved my life. Did I ever tell you? It was when I was on a walking tour. I was alone on Dartmoor, except for Sol----” “You’ve told me lots of times. Now, take my advice and have Mrs. Neaves back. She wasn’t a bad sort.” “She was very kind to Sol; used to bring him an apron full of bones,” he said reflectively. When he said that, I knew the thing was settled and that Mrs. Neaves would be reinstated. He was devoted to Sol, who was a beautiful, pure-bred deerhound, with the long, melancholy face and almost human eyes which these dogs have. Poor Arnold! I don’t know what has become of him. But I can make a good guess. He’s living somewhere in the suburbs, very near the Common--for Sol’s sake. He was a dapper little fellow. One of those men with a rather big head, neat calves, and a chain with a big seal. He wore loud check suits--four checks to the suit--when he went away on a holiday, and when he was at home he had an incorrigible habit of wasting his time at bars and chaffing the barmaid. That is nothing; every man is bachelor to the barmaid. But it led Arnold into complications.