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Updated: May 29, 2025
Just to look at Stubby you'd never in a thousand years guess what a funny feeling he had sometimes when he got to the top of the hill where his route began and could see a long way down the river and the town curled in on the other side. Sometimes when the morning sun was shining through a mist making things awful queer some of the mist got into Stubby's squinty little eyes.
There was a trembly feeling through Stubby's insides, but outwardly he was bristling just like his hair bristled as he demanded: "Where am I to get what's coming to me?" "'Fraid you won't get it, sonny. We're all in the same boat." He looked Stubby up and down and then added: "Kind of little for that boat." "I got to have it!" cried Stubby. "I tell you, I got to!" The man shook his head.
Mean routes are those that have terraces and mean dogs; good routes where the houses are close together and the dogs run out and wag their tails. Though Stubby's greater difficulty came through the wagging tails; he carried in a collie neighbourhood, and all collies seemed consumed with mighty ambitions to have routes.
Then something happened that had not happened many times in Stubby's short lifetime. He acknowledged his feelings. "I'd like to keep him. I'd like to have a dog." His mother shook her hands and the flying suds seemed expressing her scorn. "Huh! That ugly good-for-nothing thing?" The dog had edged in between Stubby's feet and crouched there. "He could go with me on my route," said Stubby.
At that his father stared for a minute and then burst into a loud laugh. Blinded with tears, the boy turned to the house. After she had gone to bed that night Stubby's mother heard a sound from the alcove at the head of the stairs where her youngest child slept. As the sound kept on she got out of her bed and went to Stubby's cot. "Look here," she said, awkwardly but not unkindly, "this won't do.
He saw now a swift by-play that escaped the rest. Nothing of any consequence, a look, the motion of a hand, a fleeting something on the girl's face and Stubby's. Jack glanced at Nelly Abbott sitting beside him, her small blonde head pertly inclined. Nelly saw it too. She smiled knowingly. "Has the brunette siren hooked Stubby?" MacRae inquired in a discreet undertone. "I think so. I'm not sure.
The letter was properly addressed and sealed not for nothing had Stubby's teacher given those instructions in the art of letter writing. The stamp he paid for out of the dime the man gave him to get a soda with and forget his troubles. Now Bill O'Brien was on the desk at the police-station and Miss Murphy of the Herald stood in with Bill.
Some of those sobs Miss Murphy choked back got into what she wrote about Stubby and his yellow dog and the next day citizens with no sense of the dramatic sent money enough to check Hero through life. At first Stubby's father said he had a good mind to lick him. But something in the quality of Miss Murphy's journalism left a hazy feeling of there being something remarkable about his son.
Possibly Stubby's own spiritual experiences had suggested to him that you weren't necessarily the way you looked. The chickens were pretty well kept out, though no one ever saw Hero doing any of it. Perhaps Hero had been too long associated with chasing to desire any part in it even with roles reversed.
He has made a fortune out of that place and those fishermen and spent it making a big splurge in town. Anyway, his wife has all kinds of kale, so we should worry about old Horace A." MacRae lit a cigarette and listened to the flow of Stubby's talk, with part of his mind mulling over this information about Horace Gower.
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