Part 16 (1/2)

”What kind of a dog do you call that?” he added.

”A greyhound, full blooded, sir.”

”Full blooded?” says the country sportsman. ”Well, he don't look as though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister, if he was full bellied--looks as hollow as a flute!”

This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or disgust, says he:

”That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir.”

”Well, what do you ask for him?”

”Seventy-five dollars.”

”What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?”

”I guess you're a fool any way,” says the dog man: ”you don't know a hound from a tan yard cur, you jacka.s.s! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!”

and the man and dog disappeared.

The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens along, and were invited to ”step in.”

”Ah! that's a dog!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the country sportsman, the moment his eyes lit upon the ma.s.sive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St.

Bernard.

”That _is_ a dog, sir,” was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.

”How much do you ask for that dog?” quoth the sportsman.

”Well,” says the trader, patting his dog, ”I thought of getting about fifty-five dollars for him, but I--”

”Stop,” interrupted the country sportsman, ”that's enough--he won't suit, no how; I can't go them figures on dogs.” The man and dog left growling, and the next man and dog were brought up.

”Why, that's a queer dog, mister, ain't it? 'Tain't got no hair on it; why, where in blazes did you raise such a dog as that; been scalded, hain't it?” says the rural sportsman, examining the critter.

”Scalded?” echoed the dog man, looking no ways amiable at the speaker, ”why didn't you never see a Chinese terrier, afore?”

”No, and if that's one, I don't care about seeing another. Why, he looks like a singed possum?”

”Well, you're a pooty looking country jake, you are, to advertise for a _dog_, and don't know Chiney terrier from a singed possum?”

Another rap at the door announced more dogs, and as the man opened it to get out with his singed possum, a genus who evidently ”killed for Keyser,” rushed in with a pair of the ugliest-looking--savage--snub-nosed, slaughter-house pups, ”the fancy”

might ever hope to look upon! As these meat-axish canines made a rush at the very boot tops of the country sportsman, he ”s.h.i.+ed off,” pretty perceptibly.

”Are you de man advertised for de dogs, sa-a-ay? You needn't be afraid o' dem; come a'here, lay da-own, Balty--day's de dogs, mister, vot you read of!”

”Ain't they rather fierce?” asked the rural sportsman, eyeing the ugly brutes.