"Is that your bulldog?" asked Uncle Ezra.
"Yes; he was too lonesome at home without me, so I sent for him. He stays in the stable."
"Another foolish and useless expense," murmured the old man. "Oh, what is the world coming to!"
Dick didn't know, so he didn't answer.
"Think well," went on Mr. Larabee. "You had better come home with me. I can get you work in the woolen mill."
"I'll stay here," replied Dick firmly.
"Then I wash my hands of you!" exclaimed the aged man. "Never appeal to me for help! I am done with you! Of all the foolish, thoughtless, rash youths I ever met, you are the worst; and your father——"
What Mr. Larabee would have said about Mr. Hamilton he never finished, for Grit, hearing the voice of a man he considered his enemy, made a rush from under the table where he was lying, and growled as though he was going to sample Uncle Ezra's legs.
"Take that brute away!" exclaimed Dick's crabbed relative, but before the order could be executed Mr. Larabee turned and fled from the room, Grit pursuing him as far as the hall.
"I guess we've seen the last of him for a while," mused Dick. "Eh, Grit, old boy?"