The man pushed his slouch over his eyes and scratched the back of his head.
"Unless I can git 'em reasonable, dogs ain't worth feedin' till next winter."
"I suppose not," said the Boy sympathetically; "and you can't get fish here."
"Right. Feedin' yourn on bacon, I s'pose, at forty cents a pound?'
"Bacon and meal."
"Guess you'll get tired o' that."
"Well, we'd sell you the red dog for sixty dollars," admitted the Boy.
The man stared. "Give you thirty for that black brute over there."
"Thirty dollars for Nig!"
"And not a—cent more. Dogs is down." He could get a dozen as good for twenty-five dollars.