"Feed him, indeed?" snorted the young woman, "he has of the best. If all poor people fared as he does, it would be well. The master is so fond of him he fears lest the wind should blow or the rain should drop on his body. He often comes himself into the kitchen to see what I give him to eat. But all the same the dirty dog is always grubbing in the rubbish tins. When I take him out he is always straying and making me go cold with fright for fear the 'boya'[3] should catch him." "The 'boya' only takes dogs who belong to no one. He would not take yours," said Aleko, turning Solon over on his back with his foot as he spoke. "Do I know? Now, in this hot weather when dogs go mad, they say that the 'boya' gets paid one drachma for every dog he catches; and all he can lay hand on are thrown into his cart. If I had my way the dog should never stir out, but the master says he must have exercise, and if he sees me out without Solon, bad luck for me!" "Take your dog now," said the boy, "I must go for my newspapers." "Listen, Aleko." "What?" "Come to the house in the morning; there are some curtains to beat." "I will come." Then, as he turned to go, he added, "Keep the dog by you! Do not let him stray again." "I have no strap," answered Anneza. Aleko was already some way off, but he called back over his shoulder:-- "You need not tie him. Talk to him." Anneza looked after the boy, whose bare feet were raising a cloud of dust as he ran, and tapped her forehead. "A good boy," she murmured, "but ..." II It was nearly sunset when Aleko came up to the Kolonaki again with his evening papers, after having sold all he could in the big squares and at the little tables outside the cafés and confectioners' shops where people sit to eat ices and look at the passers-by. He was walking slowly up the long straight street, dotted here and there with trees, which leads out of the square, dragging his feet as he walked, for the day had been long and hot. There were not many papers left in his sheaf but every now and then he raised his piercing cry:-- "Astrapi! Hesperini! Hestia!" These were the names of his newspapers. Suddenly from a narrow side street which he had already passed he heard an answering call. "Newspapers! Here!" He turned on his steps and looked down the alley. At the door of a low house stood an old man leaning on a stick. He did not beckon nor make any sign but continued to call, "Newspapers! Here!" Aleko ran up. "Which do you want?" "Have you the Embros?" "No, that is published in the morning." "I know it, but I thought you might have one left. I always take the Embros, but no one passed here this morning." "I have only the evening papers." "Well, give me the Hestia, then."