Sunny lurched reluctantly to his feet. He knew the gambler far too well to debate the point further. He had made his protest, which had been utterly ineffective, so there was nothing left him but to obey the fiercely uttered mandate.
But Sandy Joyce felt that somehow his first effort on behalf of the children had missed fire, and it was his duty not to allow himself to be ousted from the council. So he stayed the loafer with a word.
“Say, you’ll be knowin’ how to feed ’em?” he inquired gravely.
Sunny’s eyes twinkled.
“Wal, mebbe you ken give me pointers,” he retorted, with apparent sincerity.
“That’s how I was figgerin’,” said Sandy cordially. He felt better now about his first effort. “Y’see, Minky’s stock is limited some; ther’ ain’t a heap o’ variety, like. An’ kiddies do need variety. Y’see, they’re kind o’ delicate feeders, same as high-bred hosses, an’ dogs an’ things. Now, dogs need diff’rent meat every day, if you’re goin’ to bring ’em up right. A friend o’ mine sure once told me that meat, good meat, was the best feed fer prize dogs, an’ he was a feller that won a heap o’ prizes. He had one, Boston bull, I––”
“’ll I need to git dog-biscuit for them kiddies?” inquired Sunny sarcastically.
“Say, you make me sick,” cried Sandy, flushing angrily.
“Guess that’s how you’ll make them kiddies,” interposed Toby.
Sandy glanced viciously from one to the other. Then, assuming a superiority that scarcely hid his chagrin, he ignored the interruptions.