“Dat warn’t no common growl-an’-bark dawg,” Skeeter grinned, blushing until his saddle-colored face turned to a deep brownish crimson. “Dat wus one of dese here Spitz dawgs. It b’longs to Tella Tandy, dat new gal whut jes’ come to Tickfall. I’s keepin’ it fer her.”
“How come she don’t keep it fer herse’f?” Figger inquired.
“She’s stayin’ down at Mustard Prophet’s cabin, an’ she’s skeart Mustard’s fox-houn’s will eat her dawg up—dar he comes now!”
The little Pomeranian racked across the sandy floor of the saloon, small sharp ears erect, his fine intelligent eyes sparkling, his thick hair as fine and glossy as silk. He leaped into Skeeter’s lap, and licked a tiny red tongue at Skeeter’s face.
“Look out, Skeeter!” Figger exclaimed, pushing his chair out of the danger zone. “Ain’t you skeart dat Spit dawg will spit in yo’ face?”
“Naw!” Skeeter replied disgustedly. “Dey jes’ calls him a Spitz dawg fer a name. Dat’s a manner of speakin’, as it were. Ef you buys a plug of Bull-dawg chawin’ terbaccer, you don’t especk to git bit, does yer?”
“You shorely muss be stuck on dat new gal ef you totes her dawg on de street an’ feeds him puffeckly good vittles in de Hen-Scratch saloom,” Figger replied, ignoring Skeeter’s question.
“I is in love wid dat gal,” Skeeter replied positively. “She’s shore easy to look at, Figger. An’ she specifies she is wuth one thousan’ dollars.”
“My Lawd!” Figger exclaimed fervently. “I’d be willin’ to tote a whole litter of Spit dawgs fer her!”
“I wants you to he’p me ketch her, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I needs about a thousan’ dollars to make some improvements in dis barroom, an’ escusin’ dat, de gal is plum’ wuth havin’.”