"Well, well, well," said the elder man, his aspect suddenly
mollified. "Don't bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what
do you want of me?"

"Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to now about your dog."

"Reporter?"

"No."

"Glad of it. They're no good. Had my reporters on this case.
Found nothing."

"Your reporters?"

"I own the Bridgeport Delineator."

"What about the dog?"

"Good boy!" approved the old martinet. "Sticks to his point. Dog
was out walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot
on next square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber.
Dog nosed around. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm.
Died in fifteen minutes. And hang me, sir," cried the old man,
bringing his fist down on Average Jones' knee, "if I see how the
poison got him, for he was muzzled to the snout, sir!"

"Muzzled? Then--er--why do, you--er--suggest poison?" drawled the
young man.