Purt was too anxious to be offended by these remarks. He walked directly up to the leader of the gang.
“Say!” he exclaimed, breathlessly. “Do you want a dog?”
“Not if that’s what yer call a dawg, Mister,” said the other boy. “I’d be ashamed to call on me tony friends wit’ that mutt. What I needs is a coach-dawg to run under the hind axle of me landau.”
“Say!” breathed Purt, heavily, and paying no attention to the gibes. “You take this dog and keep it—or tie it up somewhere so he can’t follow me—and I’ll give you a quarter.”
“When do I git the quarter?” demanded the boy.
“Right now,” declared Purt reaching into his pocket with his free hand.
“Hand it over,” said the other, snatching away the rope.
The dude sighed to think how this strange and 69 unknown cur had already cost him a dollar and a quarter. A dollar and a quarter would have been far too much to pay for a dozen similar mongrels, and well Purt knew it.
But the instant the quarter was transferred to the other boy, the Central High exquisite traveled away from there just as fast as he could walk.
At once a mournful and heart-rending howl broke out. He looked back once; the dog was leaping at the length of his rope, nearly capsizing the holder of the same with every jump, and wailing hungrily for his fast disappearing friend.