Now it developed that the two boys who had waited the Hun had profited cunningly by the brawl.  They had approached at its beginning—­a fight was anybody’s to watch—­they had applauded its denouement with shrill and hearty cries, and they now felicitated the victor.

“Aw, that old Tod McNeil thinks he can fight!” said one, and laughed in harsh derision.

“I bet this kid could lick him any day in the week!” observed his companion.

This boy, it was now seen, led a dog on a rope, a half-grown dog that would one day be large.  He was now heavily clad in silken wool of richly mixed colours—­brown, yellow, and bluish gray—­and his eyes were still the pale blue of puppyhood.

Both newcomers had learned the unwisdom of abrupt methods of approaching this wealthy group.  They conducted themselves with modesty; they were polite, even servile, saying much in praise of the warrior twin.  The one with the dog revealed genius for this sort of thing, and insisted on feeling the warrior’s muscle.  The flexed bicep appeared to leave him aghast at its hardness and immensity.  He insisted that his companion should feel it, too.

“Have some bologna?” asked the warrior.  He would doubtless have pressed bologna now on Tod McNeil had that social cull stayed by.

“Oh!” said the belated guests, surprised at the presence of bologna thereabouts.

They uttered profuse thanks for sizable segments of the now diminished circle.  It was then that the Wilbur twin took pleased notice of the dog.  He was a responsive animal, grateful for notice from any one.  Receiving a morsel of the bologna he instantly engulfed it and overwhelmed the giver with rough but hearty attentions.

“Knows me already,” said the now infatuated Wilbur.

“Sure he does!” agreed the calculating owner.  “He’s a smart dog.  He’s the smartest dog ever I see, and I seen a good many dogs round this town.”

“Have some more bologna,” said Wilbur.

“Thanks,” said the dog owner, “just a mite.”

The dog, receiving another bit, gave further signs of knowing the donor.  No cynic was present to intimate that the animal would instantly know any giver of bologna.

“What’s his name?” demanded Wilbur.

The owner hesitated.  He had very casually acquired the animal but a few hours before; he now attached no value to him, and was minded to be rid of him, nor had the dog to his knowledge any name whatever.

“His name is Frank,” he said, his imagination being slow to start.

“Here, Frank!  Here, Frank!” called Wilbur, and the dog leaped for more bologna.

“See, he knows his name all right,” observed the owner, pridefully.

“I bet you wouldn’t sell him for anything,” suggested Wilbur.

“Sell good old Frank?” The owner was painfully shocked.  “No, I couldn’t hardly do that,” he said more gently.  “He’s too valuable.  My little sister just worships him.”