"You can't bribe a thoroughbred."
Mr. Pottle put his hands on his hips, and standing in the exact center of his lawn, raised a high, sardonic voice.
"Oh, yes," he said, "oh, dear me, yes, I'll live to be proud of Pershing. Oh, yes indeed. I'll live to love the noble creature. I'll be glad I got up on cold nights to pour warm milk into his dear little stummick. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, he'll be worth thousands to me. Here I go down to Washington, and work my head to the bone to keep a roof over us, and when I get back I can't get under it. If you ask me, Mrs. Blottom Pottle née Gallup, if you ask me, that precious animal of yours, that noble creature is the muttiest mutt that ever——"
"Ambrose!" Her edged voice clipped his oration short. "You've been drinking!"
"Well," said Mr. Pottle in a bellowing voice, "I guess a hound like that is enough to drive a person to drink. G'night, Blottom. I'm going to sleep in the flower bed. Frozen petunias will be my pillow. When I'm dead and gone, be kind to little Pershing for my sake."
"Ambrose! Stop. Think of the neighbors. Think of your health. Come into the house this minute."
He tried to obey her frantic command, but the low-lying, far-flung bulk of Pershing blocked the way, a growling, fanged, hairy wall. Mr. Pottle retreated to the flower bed.
"What was it the Belgiums said?" he remarked. "They shall not pash."
"Oh, what'll I do, what'll I do?" came from the window.
"Send for the militia," suggested Mr. Pottle with savage facetiousness.