“No use my looking,” he said. “He’ll catch ’em.”
The stableman refused to notice the dog’s occupation. He also passed over Jonesie’s remark. “He’s got a skin just like a baby’s, that dog has. Three months old, and a few days over, gentlemen, and a ten-spot takes him! What do you say, now? There ain’t a finer-bred fox terrier in town. He’s got a pedigree as long as his tail!”
“I guess that’s right,” replied Jonesie.
“What’s the good of a rabbit dog when there aren’t any rabbits?” asked Pinky. “Nor coons, neither. If you’ve got a dog that can kill rats——”
“Rats? Rats!” The stableman almost choked in his excitement. “Now you’re talking, son! You wouldn’t believe it, I guess, if I told you how many rats that dog killed yesterday afternoon inside of an hour and a half, right here in this stable.”
“Right-O!” said Jonesie. “We wouldn’t. So go ahead.”
The stableman fixed him with a glittering eye. “Fourteen,” he said impressively. “And one got away.”
Pinky brightened. Jonesie looked coldly incredulous. The terrier, having failed in his hunt, sighed and returned to his rôle of interested audience. He was really a nice little dog. Clean him up, thought Jonesie, and he’d look fine. He was all white except for a dark-brown patch over his left eye and ear, which gave him a peculiarly philosophical expression. His yellow-brown eyes were bright and intelligent, and the occasional wag of that pathetic button that had once been a perfectly good tail showed friendliness. Jonesie was melting, but you’d never have suspected it. Pinky stooped and snapped his fingers and said, “Here, pup,” in a coaxing voice. The dog wagged the remains of his tail frantically, but moved not an inch. Jonesie frowned.
“Shucks, he don’t even come when he’s called!” he said.