Peter Zinn was silent.
“Love him too much to part with him, eh?” asked the other, smiling up at the big blacksmith.
“Love him?” snorted Zinn. “Love a dog! I ain’t no fool.”
“Ah?” said the stranger. “Then what’s your price?”
Peter Zinn scratched his head; then he scowled, for when he tried to translate Blondy into terms of money, his wits failed him.
“That’s two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he said finally.
“I’ll make it three hundred, even. And, mind you. my friend, this dog is useless for show purposes. You’ve let him fight too much, and he’s covered with scars. No trimming can make that right ear presentable. However, he’s a grand dog, and he’d be worth something in the stud.”
Zinn hardly heard the last of this. He was considering that for three hundred dollars he could extend the blacksmith shop by one-half and get a full partnership with Harkness, or else he could buy that four-cylinder car which young Thompson wanted to sell. Yet even the showy grandeur of an automobile would hardly serve. He did not love Blondy. Love was an emotion which he scorned as beneath the dignity of a strong man. He had not married his wife because of love, but because he was tired of eating in restaurants and because other men had homes. The possession of an automobile would put the stamp upon his new prosperity, but could an automobile welcome him home at night or sleep at his feet?
“I dunno,” he said at last. “I guess I ain’t selling.”
And he walked on. He did not feel more kindly toward Blondy after this. In fact, he never mentioned the circumstance, even in his home, but often when he felt the warmth of Blondy at his feet he was both baffled and relieved.