"There it is, Ben. It's a new one. I don't care much for new ones. What'll you do with it?"
Ben hesitated only a moment, for he was turning the quarter over and over, and thinking of just the answer to the squire's question.
"It's a puppy, sir. Mrs. Malone said I might have it for a quarter, and father said I couldn't buy it unless I found the money."
"It'll be the pig's puppy, then? All right; but you can't make pork of him."
The pig was driven home in a good deal of a hurry, without another chance given him to root for old coins; and when Ben's father came in from the corn field that night, there was Ben ready to meet him with the puppy.
"Got him, have you?"
Ben had to explain twice over about the old cent and the Squire.
"Oh, the pig did it. Well, Ben, I don't see what we want of another dog; though that is a real pretty one. Too many dogs in this village, anyhow."
The next day Ben's father went to town with a load of wheat, and Ben went with him.
He had not owned that puppy long enough to feel like leaving him at home, so the little lump of funny black curls and clumsiness had to go to town with him.