"Yes, I guess I'm better," said 'Tilda Jane, soberly. "That was a good supper."
"Hadn't you better feed your pup?" asked the young man. "Seems to me he must be dead, he's so quiet."
"He's plumb beat out, I guess," said the little girl, and she carefully removed the dog's queer drapery.
A little, thin, old, brown cur staggered out, with lips viciously rolled back, and a curious unsteadiness of gait.
"Steady, old boy," said the young man; "my soul and body, he ain't got but three legs! Whoa—you're running into the table."
"He don't see very well," said 'Tilda Jane, firmly. "His eyes is poor."
"What's the matter with his tail? It don't seem to be hung on right."
"It wobbles from having tin cans tied to it. Gippie dear, here's a bone."
"Gippie dear," muttered the young man. "I'd shoot him if he was my dog."
"If that dog died, I'd die," said the little girl, passionately.