Readmiora

“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.” We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. “What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the taxi-window. “All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?” “I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got that kind?” The man peered d…