So might a pedestrian’s eyes have glinted at sight of a dollar bill on the sidewalk in front of him. So might the glint have clouded on seeing the bill’s owner reaching down for his property. The simile is not far-fetched, for the driver, on viewing Chum, had fancied he beheld the equivalent of several dollars. He was Eben Shunk, official poundmaster and dog catcher of Hampton Borough. Each and every stray dog caught and impounded by him meant the sum of one dollar to be paid him, in due form, by the Hampton Borough treasurer. And the fact that Chum’s sturdy master was within hail of the invitingly supine collie vexed the thrifty soul of Eben Shunk. Yet there was hope. And upon this hope Eben staked his chances for the elusive dollar and for the main object of his visit—which was no mere dollar. Briefly, in his mind, he reviewed the case and the possibilities and laid out his plan of campaign. Halting his bony horse at the mouth of the lane, he hailed Link. “Look-a-here!” he called. “Did you take out a license for that big mutt of your’n yet?” Link glanced up from his work, viewed the visitor with no semblance of favour and made curt reply. “I didn’t. And he ain’t.” “Huh?” queried Mr. Shunk, puzzled at this form of answer. “I didn’t license him,” expounded Link, “and he ain’t a mutt. If that’s all you’ve stopped your trav’lin’ m’nagerie at my lane for, you can move it on as quick as you’re a mind to.” He bent over his work again. But Eben Shunk did not take the hint. “’Cordin’ to the laws an’ statoots of the Borough of Hampton, county of P’saic, state of Noo Jersey,” proclaimed the dog catcher with much dignity, “it’s my perk’s’t an’ dooty to impound each an’ every unlicensed dog found in the borough limits.” “Well,” assented Link, “go on and impound ’em, then. Only don’t pester me about it. I’m not int’rested. S’pose you get that old bag of bones to haul your rattletrap junk cart somewheres else! I’m busy.” "Bein’ a smarty won’t get you nowheres!" declared Shunk. “If your dog ain’t licensed, it’s my dooty to impound him. He—” “Here!” snapped Link. “You got your answer on that when you tackled my wife about it down to her father’s store last week. She told me all about it. You came a-blusterin’ in there while she was buyin’ some goods and while Chum was standin’ peaceful beside her. You said if he wasn’t licensed he’d be put in pound. And if it hadn’t been for her dad and the clerk throwin’ you out of the store, you’d ’a’ grabbed him, then and there. She told you, then, that we pay the state and county tax on the dog and that the law doesn’t compel us to pay any other tax or any license fee for him. If your borough council wanted to get some easy graft by passing an ordinance for ev’ry res’dent of Hampton Borough to pay one dollar a year license fees on their dogs—well, that’s their business. It’s not mine. My home’s not in the borough and—”