“Shut up, June. Don’t talk so much,” said Wayne. “Sam, stand up and march for the gentleman. Come on! Forward! March!”
Sam removed his appealing gaze from the countenance of “Mister Denny,” sighed—you could actually hear that sigh!—reared himself on his slender hind legs and stepped stiffly down the length of the floor and back again.
“Halt!” commanded Wayne, and Sam halted so suddenly that he almost went over backward. “Salute!” Sam’s right paw flopped up and down in a sketchy salute. “Fall out!” Sam came down on all-fours with alacrity, barked his relief and again took up his station under the good-natured “Mr. Denny.” The latter applauded warmly.
“Some dog you’ve got there, kid!” he declared. “What’ll you take for him?”
“I wouldn’t sell him,” answered Wayne, washing down the last of his sandwich with the final mouthful of coffee.
“Give you ten dollars,” said the man.
Wayne shook his head with decision.
“Fifteen? Well, any time you do want to sell him, Mister, you give me first chance, will you? He’s going to have some more breakfast for that stunt.”
“Mas’ Wayne,” said June softly, “I ain’ never eat any of that squash pie, an’ it surely does look powerful handsome, don’ it?”