“I tell yer what,” hoarsely said the butcher, still gripping Purt’s shoulder, “a boy can deny his own father, but ’e can’t deny his dawg—no, sir! That there brute knows ye, bub. Only yisterday he grabbed several links of frankfurter sassingers off’n this hook right overhead ’ere.
“I ain’t goin’ to have no dumbed dawg like him come an’ grab my sassingers an’ make off with ’em, free gratis for nothin’.”
A little crowd—little, but deeply interested—had 66 gathered again. Had Purt been seeking notoriety in Lumberport, he was getting it without doubt!
The grocer next door, with a great guffaw of laughter, cried:
“Hey, Bill! don’t blame the dawg. He smelled some o’ his relatives, it’s likely, in the frankfurters, an’ set out to rescue ’em!”
“I do-ent care,” breathed the fat butcher, growing more and more excited. “No man’s dawg ain’t goin’ ter do what he done ter me an’ git away with it. This boy has got ter pay for what the dawg stole.”
Purt did not like to let go of money—among his school chums he was considered a notorious “tight-wad”—but he was willing to do almost anything to get away from the greasy-handed butcher.
“What—what did the dog take? How much were the frankfurters worth?” he stammered. “The dog isn’t mine—weally!—but I’ll pay––”
“A dollar, then. And I’ll lose by it, too,” said the butcher, but with an avaricious sparkle in his eye.
“A dollar’s worth of frankfurters!” gasped Purt.