A tradesman now descried them from the rear door of his shop.  He saw smoke from the relighted pennygrabs and noted the mound of excelsior.

“Hi, there!” he called, harshly.  “Beat it outa there!  What you want to do—­set the whole town afire?”

Of course nothing of this sort had occurred to them, but only Merle answered very politely, “No, sir!” The others merely moved off, holding the question silly.  Wilbur Cowan stalked ahead with his purchase.

“I hate just terrible to part with him,” said the dog’s late owner.

“Come on to Solly Gumble’s,” said Wilbur, significantly.  He must do something to heal this hurt.

The mob followed gleefully.  The Wilbur twin was hoping they would meet no other dog.  He didn’t want good old Frank to eat another dog right on the street.

Back in Solly Gumble’s he bought lavishly for his eight guests.  The guests were ideal; none of them spoke of having to leave early, though the day was drawing in.  And none of the guests noted that the almost continuous stream of small coin flowing to the Gumble till came now but from one pocket of the host.  Yet hardly a guest but could eat from either hand as he chose.  It was a scene of Babylonian profligacy—­even the late owner of Frank joined in the revel full-spiritedly, and it endured to a certain moment of icy realization, suffered by the host.  It came when Solly Gumble, in the midst of much serving, bethought him of the blue jay.

“I managed to save him for you,” he told the Wilbur twin, and reached down the treasure.  With a cloth he dusted the feathers and tenderly wiped the eyes.  “A first-class animal for fifty cents,” he said—­“and durable.  He’ll last a lifetime if you be careful of him—­keep him in the parlour just to be pretty.”

The munching revellers gathered about with interest.  There seemed no limit to the daring of this prodigal.  Then there came upon the Wilbur twin a moment of sinister calculation.  A hand sank swiftly into a pocket and brought up a scant few nickels and pennies.  Amid a thickening silence he counted these remaining coins.

Then in deadly tones he declared to Solly Gumble, “I only got forty-eight cents left!”

“Oh, my!  I must say!  Spent all his money!” shrilled the Merle twin on a note of triumph that was yet bitter.

“Spent all his money!” echoed the shocked courtiers, and looked upon him coldly.  Some of them withdrew across the store and in low tones pretended to discuss the merits of articles in another show case.

“I guess you couldn’t let me have him for forty-eight cents,” said the Wilbur twin hopelessly.

Solly Gumble removed his skullcap, fluffed his scanty ring of curls, and drew on the cap again.  His manner was judicial but not repellent.

“Mebbe I could—­mebbe I couldn’t,” he said.  “You sure you ain’t got two cents more in that other pocket, hey?”

The Wilbur twin searched, but it was the most arid of formalities.