He hit it!  Curiously enough, that was exactly the word!  Tunnygate was mean—­and his meanness was second only to that of the fat hippopotama his wife.

Then, without knowing why, for he had no formulated ideas as to the future, and probably only intended to try to scare Tunnygate with vague threats, Appleboy added:  “I warn you not to go through that hedge again!  Understand—­I warn you!  And if you do I won’t be responsible for the consequences!”

He really didn’t mean a thing by the words, and Tunnygate knew it.

“Huh!” retorted the latter contemptuously.  “You!”

Mr. Appleboy went inside the shack and banged the door.  Mrs. Appleboy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen-living room.

“I can’t stand it!” he cried weakly.  “He’s driving me wild!”

“Poor lamb!” soothed Mrs. Appleboy, peeling an interminable rind.  “Ain’t that just a sweetie?  Look!  It’s most as long as your arm!”

She held it up dangling between her thumb and fore-finger.  Then, with a groan she dropped it at his feet.  “I know it’s a real burden to you, deary!” she sighed.

Suddenly they both bent forward with startled eyes, hypnotized by the peel upon the floor.

Unmistakably it spelt “dog”!  They looked at one another significantly.

“It is a symbol!” breathed Mrs. Appleboy in an awed whisper.

“Whatever it is, it’s some grand idea!” exclaimed her husband.  “Do you know anybody who’s got one?  I mean a—­a—­”

“I know just what you mean,” she agreed.  “I wonder we never thought of it before!  But there wouldn’t be any use in getting any dog!”

“Oh, no!” he concurred.  “We want a real—­dog!”

“One you know about!” she commented.

“The fact is,” said he, rubbing his forehead, “if they know about ’em they do something to ’em.  It ain’t so easy to get the right kind.”

“Oh, we’ll get one!” she encouraged him.  “Now Aunt Eliza up to Livornia used to have one.  It made a lot of trouble and they ordered her—­the selectmen did—­to do away with it.  But she only pretended she had—­she didn’t really—­and I think she’s got him yet.”

“Gee!” said Mr. Appleboy tensely.  “What sort was it?”

“A bull!” she replied.  “With a big white face.”

“That’s the kind!” he agreed excitedly.  “What was its name?”

“Andrew,” she answered.

“That’s a queer name for a dog!” he commented “Still, I don’t care what his name is, so long as he’s the right kind of dog!  Why don’t you write to Aunt Eliza to-night?”

“Of course Andrew may be dead,” she hazarded.  “Dogs do die.”

“Oh, I guess Andrew isn’t dead!” he said hopefully “That tough kind of dog lasts a long time.  What will you say to Aunt Eliza?”

Mrs. Appleboy went to the dresser and took a pad and pencil from one of the shelves.

“Oh, something like this,” she answered, poising the pencil over the pad in her lap: