It was Sunday morning. I heard a church bell ring and knew it was somewhere around six o’clock. When I looked out of the car I saw that a heavy fog had settled over the city like a blessed benediction. I melted into it, making my way out of the freight yards and into the streets. The fog was so dense that I couldn’t have found my way if I had known the town. After walking blocks along a street I saw that the stores were getting smaller and farther apart. Vacant lots became more numerous and everything indicated that I was going in the wrong direction. A few doors ahead of me an old, rheumatic, mongrel dog appeared out of a hallway. He was the only living thing in sight, and when I got abreast of him I stopped and looked at him idly. He came over to me, gave me a rather doubtful look, and sat back on his haunches. After balancing himself carefully, he lifted a stiff hind leg and made a futile effort to dislodge the hungry fleas from under his collar. Failing at this, he got up slowly, gave me another looking-over, and limped back to his doorway. As he went in he glanced at me out of the tail of his eye. It sounds strange to say that I was suspicious of a mangy, old cur dog; but it’s true. There was something so human in his glance that I followed him into the doorway to see what he was up to. In the entrance behind the door, with his head on the lower step, a man was sprawled. A second look convinced me that he was a Saturday night drunk who had got that far and no farther. He was lying on his back, open-mouthed, and breathing heavily. The old dog stood beside him watching me. I could see he was a workingman and ordinarily wouldn’t have given him a look, but I was now broke, hungry, wolfish. The dog growled a feeble protest as I began exploring his master’s clothes. He had money in every pocket. I left some silver in his vest for him to get a drink with when he woke up. The devoted old mongrel stood in the door as if to bar me from going out, and eyed me reproachfully when I gently pushed him aside. Out in the street I cleansed my conscience by repeating the Sanctimonious Kid’s favorite parody: “Oh, room rent, what crimes are committed in thy name!”