An hour afterwards, Travis heard a well-known walk in the hall and opened the door.
He stepped back astonished. He released the knob and gazed half angry, half smiling.
A large dog, brindled and lean, walked complacently and condescendingly in, followed by his master. At a glance, the least imaginative could see that Jud Carpenter, the Whipper-in of the Acme Cotton Mills, and Bonaparte, his dog, were well mated.
The man was large, raw-boned and brindled, and he, also, walked in, complacently and condescendingly.
The dog's ears had been cropped to match his tail, which in his infancy had been reduced to a very few inches. His under jaw protruded slightly—showing the trace of bull in his make-up.
That was the man all over. Besides he had a small, mean, roguish ear.
The dog was cross-eyed—“the only cross-eyed purp in the worl'”—as his master had often proudly proclaimed, and the expression of his face was uncanny.
Jud Carpenter's eastern-eye looked west, and his western-eye looked east, and the rest of the paragraph above fitted him also.
The dog's pedigree, as his master had drawlingly proclaimed, was “p'yart houn', p'yart bull, p'yart cur, p'yart terrier, an' the rest of him—wal, jes' dog.”