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little ragamuffin addressed by Frank raised his dirt-creased, tear-stained face pathetically. He looked at his questioner for a moment and then went on crying harder than ever.

"Well," said Frank, "this is a queer go. Come, little son, brace up and tell what is the matter with you. Who is Fido—a dog?"

"Sure. He's in there, he's been in there for two days now, and I cannot get him out."

"There appears to be a good many dogs in there, judging from the racket," said Frank. "What kind of a place is this, anyhow?"

"It's the pound," explained the urchin. "Belongs to Riverton, but Sile Stoggs runs it. Know Stoggs?"

"I don't," answered Frank.

"He's a brute—Oh, what a brute!" cried the little fellow. "Was a constable—the mean kind. Turned a poor woman out of her house in the cold last winter. She died, and her two big brothers