They would not let me keep my little dog with me on the train, although
I had smuggled him into my Pullman in a piece of hand baggage; but in
the morning he betrayed us. Naughty, excitable, lonely little Verley!
The conductor's heart, unlike that sea-captain's, was made of stone.
Verley was banished to the baggage-car. However, I went with him, and I
spent all of that day with my dog among the baggage, not even leaving
him to get something to eat; for I had brought sandwiches.
There were a number of other dogs there besides Verley, and they kept
up an incessant barking. One of the trainmen got me a box to sit on,
and I took my little pet on my lap. The trainmen were very kind to me.
They told me they'd feed Verley well and see that he got plenty of
water; but I would not leave him. I said I thought it was shameful of
that conductor to make me keep my little dog there. The men assured
me it was one of the rules of the road, and that they could make no
exception in my case. They pointed out several other dogs, remarkable
and savage-looking hounds, which belonged to a multi-millionaire, so
they said, and I could see for myself that even he was obliged to have
them travel this way.
While the men were reassuring me, a very tall man came into the car and
went over to these hounds. They were making the most deafening noises.
They were tied, of course, but kept leaping out on their chains, and
I was afraid they would break loose, and perhaps attack and rend my
little Verley.
The tall man gave some instructions to a man who seemed to be in charge
of the hounds, and after patting the dogs' heads and scratching their
ears, he started to leave the car, when he chanced to see me, and
stopped to look at Verley.
Before I even saw his face there was something about his personality
that affected me strangely, for though I had been talking freely with
the men in the baggage-car, I suddenly felt unconscionably shy. He
had a curious, drawling voice that I have since learned to know as
Southern. He said:
"Is that your little dog?"