"See, he knows his name all right," observed the owner, pridefully.
"I bet you wouldn't sell him for anything," suggested Wilbur.
"Sell good old Frank?" The owner was painfully shocked. "No, I couldn't hardly do that," he said more gently. "He's too valuable. My little sister just worships him."
The other guests were bored at this hint of commerce. They had no wish to see good money spent for a dog that no one could eat.
"He don't look to me like so much of a dog," remarked one of these. "He looks silly to me."
The owner stared at the speaker unpleasantly.
"Oh, he does, does he? I guess that shows what you know about dogs. If you knew so much about 'em like you say I guess you'd know this kind always does look that way. It's—it's the way they look," he floundered, briefly, but recovered. "That's how you can tell 'em," he concluded.
The Wilbur twin was further impressed, though he had not thought the dog looked silly at all.
"I'll give you a quarter for him," he declared bluntly.
There was a sensation among the guests. Some of them made noises to show that they would regard this as a waste of money. But the owner was firm.
"Huh! I bet they ain't money enough in this whole crowd to buy that dog, even if I was goin' to sell him!"
The wishful Wilbur jingled coins in both pockets.
"I guess he wouldn't be much of a fighting dog," he said.
"Fight!" exploded the owner. "You talk about fight! Say, that's all he is—just a fighter! He eats 'em alive, that's all he does—eats 'em!" This was for some of them not easy at once to believe, for the dog's expression was one of simpering amiability. The owner seemed to perceive this discrepancy. "He looks peaceful, but you git him mad once, that's all! He's that kind—you got to git him mad first." This sounded reasonable, at least to the dog's warmest admirer.
"Yes, sir," continued the owner, "you'll be goin' along the street with George here—"
"George who?" demanded a skeptical guest.
For a moment the owner was disconcerted.
"Well, Frank is his right name, only my little sister calls him George sometimes, and I get mixed. Anyway, you'll be goin' along the street with Frank and another dog'll come up and he's afraid of Frank and mebbe he'll just kind of clear his throat or something on account of feeling nervous and not meaning anything, but Frank'll think he's growling, and that settles it. Eats 'em alive! I seen some horrible sights, I want to tell you!"
"Give you thirty-five cents for him," said the impressed Wilbur.
"For that there dog?" exploded the owner—"thirty-five cents?" He let it be seen that this jesting was in poor taste.
"I guess he wouldn't be much of a watchdog."
"Watchdog! Say, that mutt watches all the time, day and night! You let a burglar come sneaking in, or a tramp or someone—wow! Grabs 'em by the throat, that's all!"
"Fifty cents!" cried the snared Cowan twin. Something told the owner this would be the last raise.
"Let's see the money!"
He saw it, and the prodigy, Frank, sometimes called George by the owner's little sister, had a new master. The Wilbur twin tingled through all his being when the end of the rope leash was placed in his hand.
A tradesman now descried them from the rear door of his shop. He saw smoke from the relighted pennygrabs and noted the mound of excelsior.
"Hi, there!" he called, harshly. "Beat it outa there! What you want to do—set the whole town afire?"
Of course nothing of this sort had occurred to them, but only Merle answered very politely, "No, sir!" The others merely moved off, holding the question silly. Wilbur Cowan stalked ahead with his purchase.
"I hate just terrible to part with him," said the dog's late owner.
"Come on to Solly Gumble's," said Wilbur, significantly. He must do something to heal this hurt.
The mob followed gleefully. The Wilbur twin was hoping they would meet no other dog. He didn't want good old Frank to eat another dog right on the street.
Back in Solly Gumble's he bought lavishly for his eight guests. The guests were ideal; none of them spoke of having to leave early, though the day was drawing in. And none of the guests noted that the almost continuous stream of small coin flowing to the Gumble till came now but from one pocket of the host. Yet hardly a guest but could eat from either hand as he chose. It was a scene of Babylonian profligacy—even the late owner of Frank joined in the revel full-spiritedly, and it endured to a certain moment of icy realization, suffered by the host. It came when Solly Gumble, in the midst of much serving, bethought him of the blue jay.
"I managed to save him for you," he told the Wilbur twin, and reached down the treasure. With a cloth he dusted the feathers and tenderly wiped the eyes. "A first-class animal for fifty cents," he said—"and durable. He'll last a lifetime if you be careful of him—keep him in the parlour just to be pretty."
The munching revellers gathered about with interest. There seemed no limit to the daring of this prodigal. Then there came upon the Wilbur twin a moment of sinister calculation. A hand sank swiftly into a pocket and brought up a scant few nickels and pennies. Amid a thickening silence he counted these remaining coins.
Then in deadly tones he declared to Solly Gumble, "I only got forty-eight cents left!"
"Oh, my! I must say! Spent all his money!" shrilled the Merle twin on a note of triumph that was yet bitter.
"Spent all his money!" echoed the shocked courtiers, and looked upon him coldly. Some of them withdrew across the store and in low tones pretended to discuss the merits of articles in another show case.
"I guess you couldn't let me have him for forty-eight cents," said the Wilbur twin hopelessly.
Solly Gumble removed his skullcap, fluffed his scanty ring of curls, and drew on the cap again. His manner was judicial but not repellent.
"Mebbe I could—mebbe I couldn't," he said. "You sure you ain't got two cents more in that other pocket, hey?"
The Wilbur twin searched, but it was the most arid of formalities.
"No, sir; I spent it all."
"Spent all his money!" remarked the dog seller with a kind of pitying contempt, and drew off toward the door. Two more of the courtiers followed as unerringly as if trained in palaces. Solly Gumble bent above the counter.
"Well, now, you young man, you listen to me. You been a right good customer, treating all your little friends so grand, so I tell you straight—you take that fine bird for forty-eight cents. Not to many would I come down, but to you—yes."
Wilbur Cowan, overcome, mumbled his thanks. He was alone at the counter now, Merle having joined the withdrawn courtiers.
"I'm
