"Sperrets, boys, good old sperrets," and the old codger drank; then giving his lips a wipe with the back of his hand, and drawing out a long, deep "ah-h-h-h!" he again took his seat, observing, as he partially aroused his ugly and cross-grained mongrel—
"Here's a dog, boys."
"That your dog, dad?" asked several.
"That's my dog, boys. He is a dog."
"Ain't he, tho'?" jocularly responded the dog men.
"What breed, daddy, do you call that dog of yours?" asked one.
"Breed? He ain't any breed, he ain't. Stand up, Barney, (jerking up the sneaking-looking thing.) He's no breed, boys; look at him—see his tushes; growl, Barney, growl!—Ain't them tushes, boys? He's no breed, boys; he's original stock!"
"Well, so I was going to say," says one.
"That dog," says another, "must be valuable."
"Waluable?" re-echoes the old man; "he is all that, boys; I wouldn't sell him; but, boys, I'm dry, dry as a powder horn—so much talkin' makes one dry."