“You’re a punk thinker, then. How much will you take for the flea-trap?”
“Meaning the dog? Not a cent less’n ten dollars, son.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to sell him.” Jonesie, hands in pockets, lounged back to the sidewalk. Pinky regretfully followed. “If I had ten dollars for a dog,” continued Jonesie sarcastically, “I’d buy a good one.”
“You couldn’t find a better in this town,” drawled the man indifferently, keeping, however, a watchful eye on the countenance of the boy.
“Bet I could buy as good a one as that for two and a half,” replied Jonesie contemptuously. The dog watched the boys anxiously from the doorway. Pinky, observing, felt his heart melting within him. He tugged at Jonesie’s sleeve.
“Offer him five,” he whispered. Jonesie shrugged his shoulders.
“Offer it to him yourself,” he said aloud, moving away, “I don’t want him for any five dollars.”
“Tell you what I will do,” announced the stableman, “I’ll split the difference and call it seven-fifty. There, that’s a fair offer, ain’t it?”
Pinky looked undecided. Jonesie, having apparently lost all interest in the matter, was gazing off up the village street and whistling softly.