The House of All Sorts

Selling

A STRANGER stood at the garden gate. Young dogs leapt, old dogs stiffened and growled, enquiring noses smelled through the bars of the gate at the head of the garden steps. Fore-paws rested a step higher than hind-paws, making dogs' slanted bodies, massed upon the steps, look like a grey thatch. Strong snuffing breaths were drawn in silently, expelled loudly.

I came into the middle of the dog pack and asked of the stranger, "You wanted something?"

The man shrugged--went away.

The man bracketed dogs and me in one disdainful look.

The coarse hand that swept insolently over the dogs' heads enraged them. They made such bedlam that an upper and a lower tenant's head protruded from the side of the house, each at the level of his own flat.

"What price the big brute?"--indicating Punk.

"The blue bitch?"--pointing to Loo. "Not for sale."

"Puppies."

"Not."

"Not for sale."

"More bother'n they're worth!...G'ar on!" He struck Punk's nose for sniffing at his sleeve. "D'you want to sell or d'you not?"

"I want a dog."

"Anything for sale?" he sneered.

Money in exchange for Bobbies was dirty from hands like those.