Stubby, and as regards the joy of living Hero had done as much for Stubby as Stubby for Hero, came to a halt. The fun and frolic just died right out of him and he stood there staring at his father, who had turned the page and was settling himself to a new horror. At last Stubby spoke. “Why's he going to be shot on the first of August?” he asked in a tight little voice. His father looked up. “Why's he going to be shot? You got any two dollars and a half to pay for him?” He laughed as though that were a joke. Well, it was something of a joke. Stubby got ten cents a week out of his paper money. The rest he “turned in.” Then he went back to his paper. There was another long pause before Stubby asked, in that tight queer little voice: “What'd I have to pay two dollars and a half for? Nobody owns him.” His parent stirred scornfully. “Suppose you never heard of a dog tax, did you? S'pose they don't learn you nothing like that at school?” Yes, Stubby did know that dogs had to have checks, but he hadn't thought anything about that in connection with Hero. He ventured another question. “You have to have 'em for all dogs, even if you just picked 'em up on the street and took care of 'em when nobody else would?” “You bet you do,” his parent assured him genially. “You pay your dog tax or the policeman comes on the first of August and shoots your dog.” With that he dismissed it for good, burying himself in his paper. For a minute the boy stood there in silence. Then he walked slowly round the house and sat down where his father couldn't see him. Hero followed--it was a way Hero had. The dog sat down beside the boy and after a couple of minutes the boy's arm stole furtively around him and they sat there very still for a long time. As nobody but Hero paid much attention to him, nobody save Hero noticed how quiet and queer Stubby was for the next three days. Hero must have noticed it, for he was quiet and queer too. He followed wherever Stubby would let him, and every time he got a chance he would nestle up to him and look into his face--that way even cur dogs have of doing when they fear something is wrong. At the end of three days Stubby, his little freckled face set and grim, took his stand in front of his father and came right out with: “I want to keep one week's paper money to pay Hero's tax.” His father's chair had been tilted back against a tree. Now it came down with a thud. “Oh, you _do_, do you?” “I can earn the other fifty cents at little jobs.” “You _can_, can you? Now ain't you smart!” The tone brought the blood to Stubby's face. “I think I got a right to,” he said, his voice low. The man's face, which had been taunting, grew ugly. “Look a-here, young man, none o' your lip!” The tears rushed to Stubby's eyes but he stumbled on: “I guess Hero's got a right to some of my paper money when he goes with me every day on my route.”