Arnon stared into the thronged pen. At first, in the dim light, he could make out nothing. Then, through lips that would not steady themselves, he gave the old familiar whistle. Instantly there was a scuttling and scampering from amid the ruck of dogs. Two series of wildly eager barks cut the looser volume of howls. And Dandy and Buck came racing up to the bars that separated them from their adored master.
A minute later, a very set-mouthed and white-faced Arnon Flint stalked into the poundmaster’s office. Forcing his voice raspingly through the emotion that sanded his throat, he demanded of the man in charge:
“How much does it cost to get a dog out of the pound? I’ve—I’ve got a couple of them in there.”
The fat man at the desk looked up, wholly without interest. Heart-broken children, coming to plead for the return of their law-snatched pets, were no novelty at all to him. Pound-keepers have no silly sentiment. If they had, they would not be pound-keepers, but normal humans.
“Dollar apiece,” he grunted. “That pays their license fee.”
He turned back to his newspaper and promptly forgot the existence of the shaky and ash-faced boy. Arnon ventured one more question.
“How long,” he quavered, “how long do you keep them here, before—before you——”
“Depends on how many there are,” snapped the man, this time without looking up. “In summer we dowse about twenty a day.”
That was all. Arnon stood gaping uncertainly, for a moment. Then he lurched out of the office and back to where his chums pawed at the bars, waiting for him to take them home.
Some time later, an attendant dumped a bucketful of food-scraps into the centre of the pen. Immediately the larger and fiercer dogs fell upon the food, crowding or scaring the smaller curs away from it. It was all wolfed down by the bullies of the pen before their weaker or more timid brethren had had a mouthful.