The first three weeks of their experience on the road went far to
realize their expectations. The bulldog, which had been bought in
partnership, proved a conquering hero. Through the long summer days
the boys tramped over the country, peddling their wares, and by night
they conducted sundry unlawful encounters wherever an opponent could
be found.

Sandy enjoyed the peddling. It was astonishing what friendly
sociability and confidential intimacy were established by the sale of
blue suspenders and pink soap. He left a line of smiling testimonials
in his wake.

But if the days were proving satisfactory, so much could not be said
of the nights. Even the phenomenal luck that followed his dog failed
to keep up his enthusiasm.

"You ain't a nachrul sport," complained Ricks. "That's your trouble.
When the last fight was on, you set on the fence and listened at a'
ole idiot scrapin' a fiddle down in the valley."

Sandy made a feeble defense, but he knew in his soul it was so.

Affairs reached a climax one night in an old barn on the outskirts of
a town. A fight was about to begin when Sandy discovered Ricks
judiciously administering a sedative to the enemy's dog.

Then understanding dawned upon him, and his rage was elemental. With a
valor that lacked the better part of discretion, he hurled himself
through the crowd and fell upon Ricks.