The other guests were bored at this hint of commerce.  They had no wish to see good money spent for a dog that no one could eat.

“He don’t look to me like so much of a dog,” remarked one of these.  “He looks silly to me.”

The owner stared at the speaker unpleasantly.

“Oh, he does, does he?  I guess that shows what you know about dogs.  If you knew so much about ’em like you say I guess you’d know this kind always does look that way.  It’s—­it’s the way they look,” he floundered, briefly, but recovered.  “That’s how you can tell ’em,” he concluded.

The Wilbur twin was further impressed, though he had not thought the dog looked silly at all.

“I’ll give you a quarter for him,” he declared bluntly.

There was a sensation among the guests.  Some of them made noises to show that they would regard this as a waste of money.  But the owner was firm.

“Huh!  I bet they ain’t money enough in this whole crowd to buy that dog, even if I was goin’ to sell him!”

The wishful Wilbur jingled coins in both pockets.

“I guess he wouldn’t be much of a fighting dog,” he said.

“Fight!” exploded the owner.  “You talk about fight!  Say, that’s all he is—­just a fighter!  He eats ’em alive, that’s all he does—­eats ’em!” This was for some of them not easy at once to believe, for the dog’s expression was one of simpering amiability.  The owner seemed to perceive this discrepancy.  “He looks peaceful, but you git him mad once, that’s all!  He’s that kind—­you got to git him mad first.”  This sounded reasonable, at least to the dog’s warmest admirer.

“Yes, sir,” continued the owner, “you’ll be goin’ along the street with George here—­”

“George who?” demanded a skeptical guest.

For a moment the owner was disconcerted.

“Well, Frank is his right name, only my little sister calls him George sometimes, and I get mixed.  Anyway, you’ll be goin’ along the street with Frank and another dog’ll come up and he’s afraid of Frank and mebbe he’ll just kind of clear his throat or something on account of feeling nervous and not meaning anything, but Frank’ll think he’s growling, and that settles it.  Eats ’em alive!  I seen some horrible sights, I want to tell you!”

“Give you thirty-five cents for him,” said the impressed Wilbur.

“For that there dog?” exploded the owner—­“thirty-five cents?” He let it be seen that this jesting was in poor taste.

“I guess he wouldn’t be much of a watchdog.”

“Watchdog!  Say, that mutt watches all the time, day and night!  You let a burglar come sneaking in, or a tramp or someone—­wow!  Grabs ’em by the throat, that’s all!”

“Fifty cents!” cried the snared Cowan twin.  Something told the owner this would be the last raise.

“Let’s see the money!”

He saw it, and the prodigy, Frank, sometimes called George by the owner’s little sister, had a new master.  The Wilbur twin tingled through all his being when the end of the rope leash was placed in his hand.