“Look, Fritz,” cried Paul excitedly, “there is Pixy.”

“Where?” cried the boy, reddening with surprise and joy.

Paul’s finger was pointing to a black dog, with head and tail depressed from hunger and weariness, but Fritz knew his dog.

“Pixy!  Pixy!” he cried joyously, and the three boys ran toward him and the stout well-grown boy who was leading him.  As if electrified Pixy raised his head, and barked from joy as he struggled to break away from the rough hand that held him.  The three boys grasped the rope, but were powerless to wrench it from the hand that held it.

“Let go!” cried Fritz, “Pixy is mine and you shall not have him.”

“No, he is mine.  I bought him to-day from a strange gentleman.  Let go the rope, or I will give you a blow upon the head that will keep you from seeing and hearing for awhile.”

A regular struggle now ensued.  The big boy planted a blow on Fritz’s face which caused the blood to stream from his nose, but he held on to the rope until knocked down; whereupon Franz and Paul ran behind the boy, pulled him backward on the ground, the three jumped forward, and two of them grasped his arms while the other sat upon his ankles; and Pixy did his share by catching one leg of his pantaloons in his teeth and holding fast.

Mrs. Steiner, in the meantime, was almost sick from fright; but summoned strength to call “Help!  Help!” and several men ran to separate the combatants.

“Whose dog is it?” asked a gray-haired gentleman when he could understand the fight enough to know that it was to obtain possession of Pixy.

“It is mine!” sputtered the big boy, “and these three rascals are trying to get it from me.”

“It is mine!” cried Fritz; “we brought Pixy from the Odenwald.  We came to visit my Aunt Steiner.  There she is.”

“There comes a policeman,” called a boy in the crowd that had gathered around; and the big boy rushed away, disappearing around a corner, which convinced all that he was not the owner of Pixy.

“I am glad that your boy got his dog.  He fought a hard battle to recover it,” said one.

“Yes, and just see his face is all bruised and bleeding, and his nose swollen, perhaps disfigured for life.  And see his nice suit of clothes all dusty, and a hole torn in his pants; and his stockings, even, have blood upon them!”

And truly poor Fritz was a sorry looking object.  His hat, thanks to the monkey, did not add to his appearance.  His aunt had intended stopping at a store on their way home to get a new straw hat, but on account of his battered appearance decided to wait until next day.

“But, Aunt Fanny!” said the logical Fritz, “I may look worse to-morrow than I do to-day; and why should we care more for the people in the store than on the street?  Besides, the rim of the new straw hat will hide the bruise on my forehead.”

“That is true, Fritz, and I know of a fountain on our way home where you can wash the blood from your face and hands and as much as we can off your clothes, and with a new hat, you will look much better.”