“We had better try to work our way from town to town,” replied Carl. “Perhaps we’ll be fortunate enough to give exhibitions on the way. Even if we can’t strike garden parties, we can show at country hotels and take up a collection. It’s not a nice way to do, but it’s better than begging.”
The next morning found the pair up bright and early. Their baggage—two satchels belonging to each, for their trunks had been lost—were soon strapped up, and after breakfast they set out to shake the dust of the town from their feet.
Hardly had the last house in the place been passed than Leo noticed that they were being followed by a burly fellow, who carried in his hand an ugly-looking rawhide whip.
The fellow soon caught up to them.
“Stop there, do yer hear?” he called out.
“What do you want?” asked Carl, coming to a halt.
“I want ter talk to yer. Ain’t you the chap as killed the dog over ter Raymond’s place?”
“I am.”
“I thought so. Do yer know I was the owner of that dog, an’ that he was a valuable beast?”
“If he was valuable, it’s too bad. He was mad and had to be killed,” put in Leo.