"Huh!" snorted the visitor. "I never could see the use of dogs, anyhow. They eat 'most as much as humans, and never do any work."
"They keep tramps away," said Dick, in defense of his pet.
"Huh! A good shotgun near the door, where a tramp can see it, beats all your dogs, and it don't cost anythin' either," declared Mr. Larabee, with a sniff of disdain. "One charge of powder—not too much—and a little salt and pepper, will do for a whole season of tramps. You don't have to shoot the gun off, you know," he explained. "Sometimes one load will do for several seasons, and think of the money you save."
"I'd rather have Grit," said Dick, simply.
"Sittin' up rather late; aren't you, Mortimer?" went on Mr. Larabee, who was attired in a faded dressing gown, rather too short for him. It showed his lean legs, the feet encased in ancient slippers, which, Uncle Ezra boasted, had lasted him many years.
"I seldom go to bed early," spoke the millionaire.
"But it's late for Nephew Richard," went on the old man. "Growin' boys should be a-bed early. When I was a lad we went to bed soon after sundown—we had to, for we had to git up at four o'clock to milk. But the present generation has it too easy—they're pampered too much."
"Dick and I were talking business," said Mr. Hamilton, and he glanced sharply at his brother-in-law, to see if he had overheard any of the conversation. If Mr. Larabee had done so, he showed no signs of it.
"Business!" he exclaimed. "Wa'al, of course that's a good thing if Nephew Richard profits by what he hears. I hope he does. But I've lost considerable sleep over that pesky dog. I wish you'd attend to him."
"I will!" exclaimed Dick, hurrying out to the stable. "I guess Grit hasn't done much sleeping, either," he murmured, "not while he knew Uncle Ezra was in the house, anyhow. I don't see why he has to be so mean—Uncle Ezra, I'm thinking of," went on Dick, reflectively. "I suppose it comes natural, but it isn't very pleasant.