"Well, what do you ask for him?"
"Seventy-five dollars."
"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"
"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!" and the man and dog disappeared.
The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens along, and were invited to "step in."
"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St. Bernard.
"That is a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.
"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.
"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about fifty-five dollars for him, but I—"
"Stop," interrupted the country sportsman, "that's enough—he won't suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs." The man and dog left growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.