“I can earn the other fifty cents at little jobs.”
“You can, can you? Now ain't you smart!”
The tone brought the blood to Stubby's face. “I think I got a right to,” he said, his voice low.
The man's face, which had been taunting, grew ugly. “Look a-here, young man, none o' your lip!”
The tears rushed to Stubby's eyes but he stumbled on: “I guess Hero's got a right to some of my paper money when he goes with me every day on my route.”
At that his father stared for a minute and then burst into a loud laugh. Blinded with tears, the boy turned to the house.
After she had gone to bed that night Stubby's mother heard a sound from the alcove at the head of the stairs where her youngest child slept. As the sound kept on she got out of her bed and went to Stubby's cot.
“Look here,” she said, awkwardly but not unkindly, “this won't do. We're poor folks, Freddie” (it was only once in a while she called him that), “all we can do to live these times—we can't pay no dog tax.”
As Stubby did not speak she added: “I know you've taken to the dog, but just the same you ain't to feel hard to your pa. He can't help it—and neither can I. Things is as they is—and nobody can help it.”
As, despite this bit of philosophy Stubby was still gulping back sobs, she added what she thought a master stroke in consolation. “Now you just go right to sleep, and if they come to take this dog away maybe you can pick up another one in the fall.”