So, finding that the dog was fastened to him like a new Old Man of the Sea, Prettyman Sweet decided to sneak back to the dock, by the way of back streets, and escape the beast by going aboard the Duchess.
He set off, therefore, through several byways, coming out at last on a water-front street of more prominence. Here were stores and tenements. The gutters were crowded with noisy children, and the street with traffic.
A fat butcher stood before his shop, with his thumbs in the string of his apron. When he spied Purt and his close companion, he gave vent to an exclamation of satisfaction and reached for the Central High boy with a mighty hand.
“Here!” he said, hoarsely, his fat face growing scarlet on the instant. “I been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me, Mister?” gasped Purt. 65 “Weally—that cawn’t be, doncher know! I never came this way before.”
“No, ye smart Ike! But yer dog has,” growled the man, giving Prettyman a shake that seemed to start every tooth in his head.
“Oh, dear me!” cried Purt. “I never saw you before, sir.”
“But I’ve seen yer dog—drat the beast! And if I could ketch him I’d chop him up into sassingers—that’s what I’d do to him.”
“He—he’s not my dog,” murmured Purt, faintly.
Fido had scurried across the street when he spied the butcher; but he waited there, mouth agape, stump of tail wagging, and a knowing cock to his good ear, to see how his adopted master was coming out with his sworn enemy, the butcher.