Mr. Laloo was leaning gratefully on the counter--as, indeed, he was always leaning against something--his legs crossed, lazily plying the afternoon toothpick. "Laloo, shake hands with my friend, Mr. Stover," said Butsey White professionally. "Mr. Stover's heard about your hot dogs, way out in California." Laloo transferred the toothpick and gave Stover his hand in a tired, unenthusiastic way. "Well, now, they do be pretty good hot dogs," he drawled out. "Suppose you want one?" He looked at Stover in sleepy reproachfulness, and then slid around the counter in the shortest parabola possible. "Pick him out a nice, young Pomeranian," said Butsey, peering into the steaming tin. Laloo forked a frankfurter, selected a roll and looked expectantly at Stover. "What's the matter?" said Dink, mystified. "Mustard or no mustard?" Butsey said in explanation. "He likes to talk, but the doctor won't let him." "I'll have all that's coming to me," said Dink loudly. A second later his teeth had sunk into the odorous mass. He shut his eyes, gazed seraphically at the smooty ceiling and winked at Butsey. "Umm?" said Butsey. "Umm! Umm!" "Isn't he the fancy young dog-catcher?" "Well, I should rather!" said Dink, lost in the vapors. "I say, have another?" "Thanks, old chap, but I had a couple while you were chucking the Doctor under the chin," said Butsey glibly. "Save up now; we've got a couple more places to visit." "How much?" said Dink. Laloo, who was reclining against the nearest wall, elevated four fingers and gazed out the window. "Four!" said Stover. "One and three." "Three!" said Butsey in feigned surprise. "Oh, come, I didn't eat three--well, I never; what do you think of that?" Dink rubbed his ear thoughtfully, looked hard at Butsey and paid. Laloo followed them to the door, leaned against the jamb and gazed down the road. "Now for Bill Appleby's," said Butsey cheerily. "He's rolling--rolling in wealth. We'll go in later for lamps and crockery and all that sort of thing. I thought we might sort of wash down the hot dogs before we go up to the Jigger Shop--eh, what?" In Appleby's general merchandise store Stover gravely shook hands with a quick, business-like little man with a Western mustache, a Down-East twang and a general air of being on the trigger. "Well, Bill, how's business?" said Butsey affably, nudging Stover. "It's bad, boys, it's bad," said Bill mournfully. "Bad, you old robber," said Butsey; "why, that little iron safe of yours is just cracking open with coin. How's the rootbeer to-day?" "It's very nice, Mr. White. Just come in this morning." "Yes, it did! Bet it came in with the Ark," said Butsey, to Stover's great admiration. "Well, are you going to set us up to a couple of bottles, or have we got to pay for them?" "We've got some very fine Turkish paste, Mr. White," said Bill, producing the rootbeer. "Well?" said Butsey, looking at Stover. "Sure!"