“Well, have a piece of pie, won’t you?” begged Merriman hospitably. “Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway? Great Scott, Dobbins, it’s nearly four! How long have we been sitting here?”
“I’ve been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie,” said Joe, “and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!”
“Sausages and potatoes and pie,” laughed Merriman. “Still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did.” Joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. “Been for a walk, Foster?”
“Yes. It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I’ve sold one of these little beggars.”
“Have you? They’ve got their eyes open, haven’t they?”
“Sort of half open,” chuckled Merriman. “Maybe they’re too fat to open them any wider. This is the one that’s sold. His name is—what was it you named him, Dobbins?”
“Zephaniah,” answered Joe gravely, “Zephaniah Q. Dobbins.”
“What’s the Q for?” laughed Merriman.
“Haven’t decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster, I’m calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at Hecker’s Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work.”