"You 're a sinner, that's wot you are," announced the boy, decisively, "and Hi 'as grave fear that you 'll never git to the dog-star when you are disceased."
The bulldog seemed depressed at this prediction, and, as though resolved to convince Buster of the injustice of his statement, leaped off the stool and approached him with various contortions supposed to be illustrative of regret and a desire to obtain restoration to a place in the youth's approval.
At this moment the old-clothesman paused beneath the window, and putting his hand trumpet-wise to his mouth, shrilly declared his ability and willingness to purchase whatever cast-off garments those dwelling in the vicinity might desire to sell. Buster promptly filled the paper bag with water from the pitcher, and, leaning out as far as he dared, dropped it with precise aim on the head of the old-clothesman. It landed fair and square upon the crown of the dilapidated beaver ornamenting his head, and burst with a soft squash, drenching his shoulders and scattering a spray all around him.
The dealer uttered a stream of oaths, and, mopping his face with a handkerchief of dubious hue, looked around for the author of this apparently unprovoked attack. As the missile had come from above, the fellow naturally looked upward in search of an enemy, but found nothing more suspicious in view than the head of a bulldog which was thrust from a window in dignified contemplation of the scene. Unfortunately the old-clothesman was well acquainted with the forbidding countenance of the dog, and promptly attributing his recent ducking to the usual companion of the animal, proceeded to vigorously announce his doubts as to the respectability of Buster's immediate ancestry and his subsequent intentions when he should be so lucky as to encounter the aforesaid youth. It is almost needless to say that these plans for the future were scarcely of a nature to meet with the boy's approval, involving as they did complete fistic annihilation. At once the head of Buster appeared in the window, an expression of surprise lighting his round face only to give way to one of gentle gratification when his eye fell upon the irate peddler.
"Did Hi 'ear some one mentioning of my name?" he demanded pleasantly. "Oh, 'ow do you do, Mr. Bekowsky? His your 'ealth bloomin'?"
"I 'll bloom you, you imperent little villain," responded Bekowsky, threateningly, shaking his fist in his anger.
"Wot's that, dear sir?" inquired Buster, in a polite tone. "You seems hexcited, Mr. Bekowsky. Hits very dangersome to get so over'eated, hand the summer his 'ardly went yet."
"I 'll overheat you if I lays my hands on you," responded the old-clothesman.
"Then Hi 'll 'ave to be a cooling of you fer protection," announced Buster, cheerfully, and without the slightest warning he emptied the contents of the pitcher he had been concealing behind him over the enraged Bekowsky, drenching him thoroughly.
"Cool happlications is to be recommended when feverish," he remarked, carefully lowering the pitcher to the floor of the room without withdrawing his head from the window, for, like all wise generals, he considered it unsafe to lose sight of the enemy even for a moment while the rear was unprotected.