Don't disturb yourself; yours is the time for pleasures,
not papers."

"Hey, Gord!" a voice called thinly from without;
"here's your dog."

Gordon rose and made his way to the platform
before the store, where the Stenton stage had
stopped. A seat had been removed from the surrey,
its place taken by a large box with a square opening,
covered with heavy wire net at one end, and a board
fitted movably in grooves at the other. There were
mutters incredulous, ironic, from the awaiting group
of men; envy was perceptible, bitterness "...for
a dog. Two hundred! Old Pompey hollered out
of the dirt."

"There he is, Gord," the driver proclaimed; "and
fetching that dog palace'll cost you seventy-five
cents." The box was shifted to the platform; and,
while Gordon unfastened the slide, the men gathered
in a curious, mocking circle.

The slide was raised, the box sharply tilted, and
a grotesquely clumsy and grave young dog slid out.
There was a hoarse uproar of gibing laughter, backs
and knees were slapped, heavy feet stamped. The
dog stood puzzled by the tumult: he had a long,
square, shaggy head, the color of ripe wheat; clear,
dark eyes and powerful jaw; his body was narrow,
covered with straight, wiry black hair; a short tail
was half-raised, tentative; and his wheat-colored

[[156]]

p155 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p156w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p157

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