Tom Sanders was greatly interested.
"What a rig!" he said, loudly. "Say, are you goin' to make a paintin'?"
"Yep."
"Bartlett's pond is awful purty."
"Then let's make a bee-line for it."
"That your dog, Sanders?" asked Dave, presently.
He pointed to a large, scrawny animal which was squatting on the ground close by. Its color was a dull yellow; of all the dogs they had seen in Mountain Village this was quite the ugliest.
"Ain't you never seen Tige afore?" asked Sanders, in surprise. "He's a bully dorg, he is—say! I'll lay me cap down, an' if any of you fellers kin git away with it, it's yours."
This liberal offer was politely declined.
"He ain't afear'd of nuthin'," went on Sanders. "That dorg couldn't be bought fur five dollars. Oncet a feller offered me fifty cents, but I says 'no.'"