"I'll pay for everything," said Dick, generously.
"No—no," and his uncle spoke slowly, and with an evident effort. "I—I—er—I've got to get back to Dankville. I know some of my hired men will waste the oats in feeding the horse, or else they'll burn too much kerosene oil, sitting up nights to read useless books. No, I must get back. The gravel walks need raking, and I always cut my lawn this time of year. I'll go home. But, before I go, I want to have a little talk with you, Mortimer, on a very serious subject."
"All right, Ezra. I guess Dick will excuse us."
Mr. Hamilton arose from the table, followed by his brother-in-law. As Uncle Ezra pushed back his chair there was a mingled howl and growl, followed by a short bark.
"Grit!" cried Dick. "You've stepped on my bulldog, Uncle Ezra!"
"Served him right!" snapped the old man. "Dogs have no business in the house. I'd have him shot if he were mine!"
An angry retort rose to Dick's lips, but by an effort he calmed himself.
"Here, Grit, old fellow," he called soothingly, and the dog crawled up to him, limping slightly.
"Dogs are no good," went on Mr. Larabee, pointing a long, lean finger at Grit. "If he were mine I'd——"
He didn't finish the sentence, for the bulldog, with the hair on the ridge of his back standing up in anger, and with his lips parted in an ugly snarl, darted away from Dick. The animal might have sprung at Mr. Larabee, but for the restraining hand of his master on his collar. However, the crabbed old man did not wait. Toward the library he fled, crying out: