Part 11 (1/2)

”Oh, dear me!” cried Purt. ”I never saw you before, sir.”

”But I've seen yer dog--drat the beast! And if I could ketch him I'd chop him up into sa.s.singers--that's what I'd do to _him_.”

”He--he's not my dog,” murmured Purt, faintly.

Fido had scurried across the street when he spied the butcher; but he waited there, mouth agape, stump of tail wagging, and a knowing c.o.c.k to his good ear, to see how his adopted master was coming out with his sworn enemy, the butcher.

”I tell yer what,” hoa.r.s.ely said the butcher, still gripping Purt's shoulder, ”a boy can deny his own father, but 'e can't deny his dawg--no, sir! That there brute knows ye, bub. Only yisterday he grabbed several links of frankfurter sa.s.singers off'n this hook right overhead 'ere.

”I ain't goin' to have no dumbed dawg like him come an' grab my sa.s.singers an' make off with 'em, free gratis for nothin'.”

A little crowd--little, but deeply interested--had gathered again.

Had Purt been seeking notoriety in Lumberport, he was getting it without doubt!

The grocer next door, with a great guffaw of laughter, cried:

”Hey, Bill! don't blame the dawg. He smelled some o' his relatives, it's likely, in the frankfurters, an' set out to rescue 'em!”

”I do-ent care,” breathed the fat butcher, growing more and more excited. ”No man's dawg ain't goin' ter do what he done ter me an' git away with it. This boy has got ter pay for what the dawg stole.”

Purt did not like to let go of money--among his school chums he was considered a notorious ”tight-wad”--but he was willing to do almost anything to get away from the greasy-handed butcher.

”What--what did the dog take? How much were the frankfurters worth?”

he stammered. ”The dog isn't mine--weally!--but I'll pay----”

”A dollar, then. And I'll lose by it, too,” said the butcher, but with an avaricious sparkle in his eye.

”A dollar's worth of frankfurters!” gasped Purt.

”Yes. An' I wish they'd ha' chocked the brute,” complained the butcher.

”I wish they had--before he ever saw me,” murmured Purt.

He paid over the money and hurried away from the laughing crowd. And there, within a block, the dog was right at his heels again--rather slinkingly, but with the joy of companions.h.i.+p in his eye.

Now Purt was nearing the dock above the Main Street bridge where the motorboats were tied up. Whether the girls had returned or no, he hated to face the other fellows with this mongrel trailing at his heels.

The situation sharpened Purt's wits. Here was a store where was sold rope and other s.h.i.+p-chandlery. He marched in and bought a fathom of strong manilla line, called the foolish dog to him, found that he wore a nondescript collar, and hastily fastened the line to the aforesaid collar.

It was in the boy's mind to tie the dog somewhere and leave it behind.

If he had dared, he would have tied a weight to the other end of the rope and dropped both weight and dog overboard.

Just then, however, he met a group of ragged, barefooted urchins--evidently denizens of the water-front. They hailed the gaily dressed Purt and the ragged mongrel, with delight.

”What yer doin' wid the dawg?” inquired one.

”Takin' him to the bench-show, Clarence? He'll win a blue ribbon, _he_ will.”

”Naw,” said another youthful humorist. ”They don't let Clarence out without the dawg. That's to keep Clarence from gettin' kidnapped.

n.o.body would wanter kidnap him if they had ter take that mutt along, too.”