"I—uh—what's the price of that dog in the window?"
The old man removed his spectacles, ran a hand through upstanding white hair, and regarded his questioner suspiciously.
"You vant him, hey? Vell, I tell. Fifdy dollars, you bed your life!"
The blood leaped in his veins. He had expected to hear a hundred at least. Still, fifty was a difficult enough sum. He hesitated.
"Er—what's his name?"
"Naboleon."
"What?" He could not believe this thing.
"Naboleon. It comes in his bedigree when I giddim. You bed your life I gif him nod such names—robber, killer, Frenchman!"
Bean felt assaulted.
"He was a fighter?"