“When did you start to be a actor, Mighty?” asks Magpie, but the feller what Slim took apart steps between Magpie and Mighty and peers at Magpie’s star.
“Pardon me,” says he, “I see you’re the sheriff.”
“You’re pardoned, and I congratulates yuh on your eyesight,” replies Magpie.
“I’ve lost my dogs,” says he. “Somebody must ’a’ stole ’em.”
By this time most everybody in Piperock has congregated around. Music sure is a magnet for folks and dogs.
“Pick out what yuh want,” says Magpie, indicating any amount of canines, circling around through people’s legs. “Losing a few dogs ain’t no disaster around here.”
“Mine are valuable dogs,” states Legree, in a loud tone. “Trained dogs. Our show can’t proceed without them dogs.”
“Name, age and description,” says Magpie, hauling out a little note-book. “Also any distinguishing marks and brands.”
“One bloodhound, crossed with St. Bernard and collie; color, yaller; named Violet.”
“War-hoo-o-o-o!” howls a dog up the street.