Stubby had a route, and that was how he happened to get a dog.

For the
benefit of those who have never carried papers it should be thrown in that
having a route means getting up just when there is really some fun in
sleeping, lining up at the Leader office--maybe having a scrap with the fellow
who says you took his place in the line--getting your papers all damp from the
press and starting for the outskirts of the city. Then you double up the paper in
the way that will cause all possible difficulty in undoubling and hurl it with what
force you have against the front door. It is good to have a route, for you at
least earn your salt, so your father can't say that any more. If he does, you
know it isn't so.

When you have a route, you whistle. All the fellows whistle. They may not feel
like it, but it is the custom--as could be sworn to by many sleepy citizens. And
as time goes on you succeed in acquiring the easy manner of a brigand.

Stubby was little and everything about him seemed sawed off just a second
too soon,--his nose, his fingers, and most of all, his hair. His head was a
faithful replica of a chestnut burr. His hair did not lie down and take things
easy. It stood up--and out!--gentle ladies couldn't possibly have let their hands
sink into it--as we are told they do--for the hands just wouldn't sink. They'd
have to float.
 And alas,
gentle ladies didn't particularly want their hands to sink into it. There was not
that about Stubby's short person to cause the hands of gentle ladies to move
instinctively to his head. Stubby bristled. That is, he appeared to bristle.
Inwardly, Stubby yearned, though he would have swung into his very best
brigand manner on the spot were you to suggest so offensive a thing. 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. After the
mist behaved that way he always whistled so rakishly and threw his papers
with such abandonment that people turned over in their beds and muttered
things about having that little heathen of a paper boy shot.

All along the route are dogs. Indeed, routes are distinguished by their dogs.
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. If you spoke to them--and how could
you help speaking to a collie when he came bounding out to you that way?--
you had an awful time chasing him back, and when he got lost--and it seemed
collies spent most of their time getting lost--the woman would put her head out
next morning and want to know if you had coaxed her dog away.

Some of the fellows had dogs that went with them on their routes. One day
one of them asked Stubby why he didn't have a dog and he replied in surly
fashion that he didn't have one 'cause he didn't want one. If he wanted one,
he guessed he'd have one.

And there was no one within ear-shot old enough or wise enough--or tender
enough?--to know from the meanness of Stubby's tone, and by his evil scowl,
that his heart was just breaking to own a dog.
One day a new dog appeared along the route. He was yellow and looked like
a cheap edition of a bull-dog. He was that kind of dog most accurately
described by saying it is hard to describe him, the kind you say is just dog--
and everybody knows.

He tried to follow Stubby; not in the trusting, bounding manner of the collies--
not happily, but hopingly. Stubby, true to the ethics of his profession, chased
him back where he had come from. That there might be nothing whatever on
his conscience, he even threw a stone after him. Stubby was an expert in
throwing things at dogs. He could seem to just miss them and yet never hit
them.

The next day it happened again; but just as he had a clod poised for throwing,
a window went up and a woman called: "For pity sake, little boy, don't chase
him back here."

"Why--why, ain't he yours?" called Stubby.

"Mercy, no. We can't chase him away."

"Who's is he?" demanded Stubby.

"Why, he's nobody's! He just hangs around. I wish you'd coax him away."

Well, that was a new one! And then all in a heap it rushed over Stubby that
this dog who was nobody's dog could, if he coaxed him away--and the
woman wanted him coaxed away--be his dog.