"Why, we can exhibit him at bench shows," she argued, "and win hundreds of dollars in prizes. And his pups will be worth fifty dollars per pup easily, with that pedigree."
"Great Cæsar's Ghost," said Mr. Pottle, despondently. "Fifty dollars! And the shaving stick business all geflooey."
"He'll be worth a thousand to me as a protector," she declared, defiantly. "You wait and see, Ambrose Pottle. Wait till he grows up to be a great, big, handsome, intelligent dog, winning prizes and protecting your wife. He'll be the best investment we ever made, you mark my words."
Had Pershing encountered Mr. Pottle's eye at that moment the marrow of his small canine bones would have congealed.
"All right, Blossom," said her spouse, gloomily. "He's yours. You take care of him. I wonder, I just wonder, that's all."
"What do you wonder, Ambrose?"
"If they'll let him visit us when we're in the poor house."
To this his wife remarked, "Fiddlesticks," and began to feed Pershing from a nursing bottle.
"Grade A milk, I suppose," groaned Mr. Pottle.
"Cream," she corrected, calmly. "Pershing is no mungle. Remember that, Ambrose Pottle."