“Somewhere,” responded Steve bitterly, “there are four more of the things, and I’ve got to sleep here with ’em!”
IV
A week has passed. It is a Saturday morning and Jonesie, immaculately clad and whistling blithely, is on his way to the village to make purchases. He has quite a number of commissions to fill, for nine of his particular friends and cronies are suffering probation, a condition which prevents them from leaving the confines of the school, while another is recovering slowly from bodily injuries inflicted by Jonesie with the whole-hearted, enthusiastic assistance of the nine. Jonesie is in very good spirits. The sun is warm and the sky is blue, before him lie the marts of trade stocked with delectables that appeal to hungry boyhood, and, while others languish in durance vile, liberty is his! He is sorry for those others—when he thinks of them—but his grief is not deep enough to darken his life.
As he approaches Perkins’s Livery and Sales Stable a rotund man whittling a stick and chewing a straw in front of the office door observes him with interest. The whittling ceases and the chair, which has been tilted back against the stable, comes down on all four legs.
“Hello,” greets the liveryman. “Haven’t forgot about that dog of yours, have you? You ain’t been around to see him lately.”
“Dog?” asks Jonesie, wrinkling his innocent young brow. “What dog?”
The liveryman stares.
“What dog! Why, the dog you bought off me ’most two weeks ago! Ain’t forgotten him, have you?”
Jonesie shakes his head helplessly. “I fancy,” he responds distantly, “you’ve made a mistake. I don’t own any dog.”