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Rh intricacy of knobs, buttons, spark-plugs, forward clutch and so forth was coming tomorrow.

“Aw!!” said Dowd, moaningly, “you know, Clancy, that good old light shifting about and that light ‘stomping’ in that row of stalls, at night; you know, old man, that happy crunching of corn; that occasional cough; that tail-swatting at a fly or crazy zigzagging moth; that grand animal odor from that back part of this floor.”

“I do,” said Clancy. “And now what? A loud whizz of a motor! A suffocating blast of gas! and a dom thing a-standin’ on this floor, wid no brain; wid nothin’ lovin’ about it. Wid no soul.”

“Um-m-m,” said Dowd, “I dunno about an animal havin’ a soul, but it’s got a thing not so dom far from it.”

As Clancy sat worrying about various forms of disposal for Big Four, an official phoning from City Hall, said just an ordinary, common word, which had Clancy hopping up and down, furiously mad.

“What’s all this? What’s all this?” Dowd sang out, coming from a stall, in which a good rubbing down of a shiny coat, and continuous loving pats had brought snuggling and nosing.

“Auction!!” said Clancy, wildly, and sitting down with a thud.