“Not so fine as you think, mebbe. His tepee is chock-full o’ fleas. Not jest them ord’nary, little everyday fleas, but pesky sand-fleas,—big as butterflies, I vum.”
“Well, good scratching Bill,” chuckled Tom.
“Maybe we can pick you up a package of flea powder somewhere in the village,” hooted Ben.
“An’ by the way, boys,” went on Bill, a strange look coming over his face, “what did you have fer supper; if I may be so rude as to inquire.”
“Roast turkey, Bill,” Tom said. “Gee, it was scrumptious!”
“Roast turkey, eh? An’ it was scrumptious. Hm! guess what ol’ Bill had set afore him.”
“Can’t imagine,” Ben said.
“Well, brace yerselves! Roast dog!”
“Roast dog?”
“Yep, roast dog,” lamented Bill; shaking his head sadly, as he patted his mid-section.