"At first I trotted along the pavement in the best spirits, meeting very few dogs, and those of a very rough kind, so that I did not care to speak to them. It was, as you remember, a very hot day. The ground felt quite burning under my feet, and soon I should have been thankful to be carried a little while. I got thirsty too, and I began to look about for a shady place where I could lie down and rest out of the sun. Presently I came to a narrow turning, which looked dark and cool compared to the bright hot streets. It was quiet too, for there was only a man in the yard washing a cart, and a rough-coated grey dog sitting near. I made up my mind to try this, and trotting up to the dog made a few remarks about the heat of the weather. From his replies I soon perceived that he was quite a common dog, though very good-natured in manner, and he shortly told me he belonged to the green-grocer and that his name was `Bob.' "We continued to talk, and before long I learnt a good deal about his way of life, which interested me extremely from its great contrast to my own. In spite of its hardships there was something attractive about it too, though quite out of the question for anyone of delicacy and refinement. For Bob was a working dog. He had to be at Covent Garden by daybreak with his master, to go on all his rounds with him, and to take care of the vegetables in the cart while he called at the different houses. "`And what do you get for all that?' I asked. "`I get my food, and a good many kicks sometimes,' he answered. "`Poor dog!' I exclaimed, for my heart was filled with pity for him, and I no longer thought his an attractive life. `Why don't you run away?' "Bob grinned. `I'm not so stupid as that,' he replied. `Dogs that run away come to bad ends. Besides, I'm happy enough. I get a holiday sometimes, and a walk in the park, and on Sunday I can do what I like.' "`Dear me!' I exclaimed languidly. `What a dreadful life! Now, _I_ have nothing to do but to please myself every day in the week, and as for the park, I go there so often I'm perfectly sick of it.' "`Do you get your Sundays out?' asked Bob. "I hesitated. `This is really my first Sunday out,' I replied at length, `but I intend in future--' "`What's your name?' rudely interrupted Bob. "He certainly had no manners at all, but what could you expect from a dog of low degree? "`My name,' I replied, holding up my head with a slight sniff of disdain, `is--Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough!' "I had no time to notice the effect of these words, for they were hardly out of my mouth when I felt myself seized by a large hand, lifted into the air, and thrust into someone's coat pocket. From this humiliating position I heard the voice of the man washing the cart:-- "`That _your_ dorg?' And someone answered, `It belongs to the lady.'