BRUNO IN BELMONT 93 
howled dismally. So long as there was anyone in 
sight, he made no fuss. 
Some of my brothers’ dogs were often playing 
about, and-now that the bear was caged, he wanted 
to make friends with them. This suggested to me 
the idea that a dog might be a good companion to 
cheer him up a bit when we were away. But no 
one would lend me a dog for the experiment. Just 
at this time, as good luck would have it, however, 
I had a chance to buy a dog at a cut-rate price. I 
was crossing Boston Common one morning when I 
was accosted by a dirty, unshaven individual lead- 
ing a disreputable-looking dog by a string. 
“TI say, mister,” he muttered, “could yer give 
a feller the loan of a quarter?” Then he added, 
as he saw a doubtful expression come over my face, 
“Tl pay you back when I sell this dog.” 
Here was my chance. “What do you ask for the 
dog, and what kind of dog is it?” 
“She ’s a good dog; I’m hard-up and I’1l sell her 
for fifty cents; I call her a beagle,” said the man. 
“You might also call her a spaniel,” I volun- 
teered, “ but she looks to me more like a fox-terrier.”’ 
“Well, maybe she is,” the dog man assented. 
“The feller that give her to me called her Foxy. 
Maybe that’s why he give her that name.” 
Fox-terrier, dachshund, or spaniel, it made no 
difference to me. She was a live dog. Where again 
