"Gee!" he breathed. "Is he ever big! What's his name?" "Pal," Jeff answered. "Do you like big dogs, son?" "I like all dogs. Does he bite?" "Gentle as a kitten. Go ahead and pet him." Pal stood, his head reaching almost to the youngster's shoulders, and wagged a welcoming tail at the hand stretched toward him. The boy tickled Pal's ears and smoothed his muzzle. "Wish he was mine!" he sighed. "Don't you have a dog?" "My paw," the boy said mournfully, "won't let me have one. Well, I got to go down to Skinner's and get Maw some sugar." "Take this." Jeff drew a peppermint stick from his pack and extended it. The boy took it with the same hand he had used to pet Pal and grinned his thanks. Jeff watched him skip down the street and sighed. He liked everybody, but he had an especially soft spot in his heart for children. Besides, it was good business. Should he decide to make a house-to-house canvass, he had already paved the way in at least one home. Two women passed, going to the far side of the walk and keeping their eyes averted when they reached Jeff, and a man came from the opposite direction. Without seeming to, Jeff studied him. About thirty, the man was slim and supple. Snapping black eyes and a pert waxed mustache betrayed his French origin, and from his quick, sure steps he was a woodsman. He swerved into John T. Allen's store and Jeff decided that he was a man of short temper. A moment later, that opinion was borne out. "_Sacré!_" came an outraged roar. "You are a dog among dogs! A pig among pigs! You cheat the honest people!" There came a snappish but calmer voice. "Take it easy, Pierre." "Nev-air!" Pierre shouted. "Nev-air, and nev-air do I come back!" He bristled out of the store, turned to fling a final "Nev-air, pig!" back into it, and confronted Jeff. "You know what he do?" he screamed. "I need the knife, the good hunting knife! For it he wants a doll-air and twenty-five cents!" "Maybe they're worth that much." "_Non!_ Nev-air!" He looked seriously at Jeff. "You sell the hunting knife?" "I do not compete with merchants." "You sell the hunting knife?" Pierre repeated. "I--" "Sell me the hunting knife!" "But--" "This I demand! Sell me the hunting knife!" With every show of reluctance, Jeff drew a hunting knife with a three-inch blade from his pack. Pierre snatched it and his eyes lighted deliriously. "How much?" "A dollar and twenty cents." "Is good!" Pierre pressed a rumpled dollar bill and two dimes into Jeff's hand, danced back to the store entrance and waved the knife as though he were about to go scalping with it. "See!" he screamed at the storekeeper. "Dog! See! The pedd-lair, he do better than you! I have the hunting knife!" Pierre stamped fiercely away and Jeff settled back to watch. But only for a moment.