"Well, you did, didn't you?"
"Of course I did. That is, I hired Charlie Brubaker to do it. But she says I did it with my own hands, and—my gosh, Anderson, I never went through such a night in my life as last night." He mopped his brow. "You'd think I was a murderer. Course, I denied it. I swore he wasn't dead, and that I'd increase the reward to a hundred dollars just to show her. What I want you to do, right away, is to have a new set of bills printed, offerin' a hundred dollars reward for that dog, instead of three. It's the only chance I've got of ever being able to live in my own house again."
The Marshal eyed him reflectively. "If you could get her to agree to let you offer the reward for Mike, dead or alive—"
"She wants him alive, and no other way."
"Can't you buy her off?"
Mr. Fryback groaned. "I could—" he began dismally, and then fell to chewing with great vigour.
"What would it cost?" inquired Anderson, feelingly.
"An automobile," replied Mr. Fryback, after opening and closing the stove-door once more. "It would be cheaper, you see, to offer a hundred dollars for Mike," he explained, ingenuously.
"It certainly would," agreed the Marshal, "seein' as you wouldn't have to pay fer anything except the printin' of the notices. If you wanted to show how much you think of your wife, and how anxious you are to please her, you could go as high as a thousand dollars, Mort."
"Would you, reely, Anderson?"