Mr. Kent Maclin took his hat and stick and started for his customary
after-dinner stroll. On the front porch he found a small, brown dog
busily engaged in reducing the doormat to a pulp.
Mr. Maclin recognized the dog as one belonging to the next door
neighbor; he had seen him earlier in the day digging in a bed of
scarlet geraniums. If people _would_ keep dogs, Mr. Maclin thought
they ought at least to teach them to behave. Still, if the lady who
owned the dog could stand it to have her flower beds ruined, Mr.
Maclin supposed he ought not to mind a chewed-up doormat.
The dog was only a puppy, anyway. His manners would probably improve
as he grew older. Mr. Maclin stooped and patted him kindly on the
head. The stubby brown tail thumped the floor ecstatically, and a red
tongue shot out and began licking the polish from Mr. Maclin's shoes.
"Jolly little beggar, aren't you?" said the gentleman. But he backed
hastily away from the moist, red tongue.