Sam removed his appealing gaze from the countenance of “Mister Denny,” sighed--you could actually hear that sigh!--reared himself on his slender hind legs and stepped stiffly down the length of the floor and back again. “Halt!” commanded Wayne, and Sam halted so suddenly that he almost went over backward. “Salute!” Sam’s right paw flopped up and down in a sketchy salute. “Fall out!” Sam came down on all-fours with alacrity, barked his relief and again took up his station under the good-natured “Mr. Denny.” The latter applauded warmly. “Some dog you’ve got there, kid!” he declared. “What’ll you take for him?” “I wouldn’t sell him,” answered Wayne, washing down the last of his sandwich with the final mouthful of coffee. “Give you ten dollars,” said the man. Wayne shook his head with decision. “Fifteen? Well, any time you do want to sell him, Mister, you give me first chance, will you? He’s going to have some more breakfast for that stunt.” “Mas’ Wayne,” said June softly, “I ain’ never eat any of that squash pie, an’ it surely does look powerful handsome, don’ it?” “You still hungry?” frowned Wayne. “I ain’ downright hungry,” answered June wistfully, “but I--I surely would act awful kind to a piece of that pie!” “All right,” said Wayne. “How much is pie, sir?” “Five cents. Want some?” “Please. A slice of the squash.” The proprietor, too busy with Sam to have heard the exchange, set the pie in front of Wayne, and the latter pushed it along to June. “Did you say two pieces?” asked the man, poising his knife. “No, thank you.” June looked uncertainly from the tempting yellow triangle on the plate before him to Wayne and back again. “Ain’ you-all goin’ to have no pie?” he asked. Wayne shook his head. June laid down the fork and sniffed doubtfully. “What kind of pie you say this is, Mister Denny?” he asked. “Huh? Squash pie.” “Uh-huh. I reckon I don’ care for it, thanky, sir. It don’ smell like I thought it would.” “Don’t be a fool!” whispered Wayne. “I don’t want any.” “Say you don’? I ain’ believin’ it, though. Please, Mas’ Wayne, you have a half of it. It’s a powerful big piece of pie.” “Lots more here,” said the proprietor. “Want another piece?” “No, thanks,” answered Wayne. “I--maybe I’ll take a bite of his.” The man’s reply to this was a quick slash of his knife and a second section of the squash pie slid across the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Try it. It’s good pie.” Wayne hesitated. “I don’t think I want any,” he muttered. “I’m not hungry.” “You eat it if you don’t want me to get mad at you,” said the other, levelling the knife at him sternly. “If you can’t eat it all give it to Sam. I’ll bet you he likes pie, eh, Sammy?” Wayne smiled and, to June’s vast relief, ate. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry and perhaps it was mere politeness that caused him to consume every last crumb, but he had the appearance of one in thorough enjoyment of his task. When both plates were cleaned up Wayne dug a hand into a pocket.