And while Constance was thus taking her wedding presents with due seriousness, Maggie was cleaning the steps that led from the pavement of King Street to the side-door, and the door was ajar. It was a fine June morning. Suddenly, over the sound of scouring, Constance heard a dog's low growl and then the hoarse voice of a man: "Mester in, wench?" "Happen he is, happen he isn't," came Maggie's answer. She had no fancy for being called wench. Constance went to the door, not merely from curiosity, but from a feeling that her authority and her responsibilities as house-mistress extended to the pavement surrounding the house. The famous James Boon, of Buck Row, the greatest dog-fancier in the Five Towns, stood at the bottom of the steps: a tall, fat man, clad in stiff, stained brown and smoking a black clay pipe less than three inches long. Behind him attended two bull-dogs. "Morning, missis!" cried Boon, cheerfully. "I've heerd tell as th' mister is looking out for a dog, as you might say." "I don't stay here with them animals a-sniffing at me--no, that I don't!" observed Maggie, picking herself up. "Is he?" Constance hesitated. She knew that Samuel had vaguely referred to dogs; she had not, however, imagined that he regarded a dog as aught but a beautiful dream. No dog had ever put paw into that house, and it seemed impossible that one should ever do so. As for those beasts of prey on the pavement...! "Ay!" said James Boon, calmly. "I'll tell him you're here," said Constance. "But I don't know if he's at liberty. He seldom is at this time of day. Maggie, you'd better come in." She went slowly to the shop, full of fear for the future. "Sam," she whispered to her husband, who was writing at his desk, "here's a man come to see you about a dog." Assuredly he was taken aback. Still, he behaved with much presence of mind. "Oh, about a dog! Who is it?" "It's that Jim Boon. He says he's heard you want one." The renowned name of Jim Boon gave him pause; but he had to go through with the affair, and he went through with it, though nervously. Constance followed his agitated footsteps to the side-door. "Morning, Boon." "Morning, master." They began to talk dogs, Mr. Povey, for his part, with due caution. "Now, there's a dog!" said Boon, pointing to one of the bull-dogs, a miracle of splendid ugliness. "Yes," responded Mr. Povey, insincerely. "He is a beauty. What's it worth now, at a venture?" "I'll tak' a hundred and twenty sovereigns for her," said Boon. "Th' other's a bit cheaper--a hundred." "Oh, Sam!" gasped Constance. And even Mr. Povey nearly lost his nerve. "That's more than I want to give," said he timidly. "But look at her!" Boon persisted, roughly snatching up the more expensive animal, and displaying her cannibal teeth. Mr. Povey shook his head. Constance glanced away. "That's not quite the sort of dog I want," said Mr. Povey. "Fox-terrier?" "Yes, that's more like," Mr. Povey agreed eagerly. "What'll ye run to?"