The clerk skilfully conducted a series of measurements, noting results on a printed form; outer and inner seams were tallied, chest and thigh and knee recorded, the elbow crooked. “Don’t forget his teeth,” the clerk was admonished; “remember the braid on the pants.”
Gordon resumed his coat, the clerk returned the books to their shelf, and the factitious excitement subsided. The light faded, the depths of the store swam in blue obscurity, but the fragrance of the spring dusk had deepened.
“When are you going to get the dog, Gord?” Tol’able asked.
“What dog?” another interposed curiously.
“Why, ain’t you heard about Gord’s dog,” the chorus demanded. “Where have you been—up with the Dutch on the South Fork? Gord’s got a dog coming he give two hundred dollars for. Yes, sir, he paid for a dog, he give real money for a four-legged, yelping wire-hound. It ain’t a rabbit dog, nor a sheep dog, nor even a bull-dog; but just plain, stinking dog.”
“Ah, he did like hell, give two hundred for a dog!”
“Yes, he did. That’s right, didn’t you, Gord? Two hundred! I saw the cheque. God dam’ if he didn’t!”
Gordon admitted the facts as far as they had been stated. “But this dog,” he explained, “is different from the just happen so hounds around here. This dog has got a pedigree, his parents were united by the church all regular and highly fashionable. He ain’t expected to run rabbits nor mangy sheep; he just sits on the stoop eating sausages and syrup, and takes a leg off any low down parties that visit with him without a collar on. He’ll be on the Stenton stage this evening,” he added. “I got word last night he was coming.”
They lounged to the entrance of the store, gazing over the still road, in the direction from which the stage would arrive. Valentine Simmons was in his office; and, as Gordon passed, he knocked on the glass of the enclosure, and beckoned the other to enter.
He greeted Gordon Makimmon cordially, waving him to a seat. Valentine Simmons never, apparently, changed; his countenance was always freshly pink, the tufts of hair above his ears like combed lamb’s wool; his shirt with its single, visible blue button never lacked its immaculate gloss.