ot a
tender place in his head, not healed up as it ought to be.

While "putting up," t'other day, at the Irving House, New York, I heard
a good dog story that will bear repeating, I think. A sporting gent from
the country, stopping at the Irving, wanted a dog, a good dog, not
particular whether it was a spaniel, hound, pointer, English terrier or
Butcher's bull. So a friend advised him to put an advertisement in the
Sun and Spirit of the Times, which he did, requesting the "fancy" to
bring along the right sort of dog to the Irving House, room number --.

The advertisement appeared simultaneously in the two papers on Saturday.
There were but few calls that day; but on Monday, the "Spirit" having
been freely imbibed by its numerous readers over Sunday, the dog men
were awake, and then began the scene. The occupant of room number --had
scarcely got up, before a servant appeared with a man and a dog.

"Believe, sir, you advertised for a dog?" quoth he with the animal.

"Yes," was the response of the country fancy man, who, by the way, it
must be premised, was rather green as to the quality and prices of fancy
dogs.

"What kind of a dog do you call that?" he added.

"A greyhound, full blooded, sir."

"Full blooded?" says the country sportsman. "Well, he don't look as
though he had much blood in him. He'd look better, wouldn't he, mister,
if he was full bellied--looks as hollow as a flute!"

This remark, for a moment, rather staggered the dog man, who first
looked at his dog and then at the critic. Choking down his dander, or
disgust, says he:

"That's the best greyhound you ever saw, sir."

"Well, what do you ask for him?"

"Seventy-five dollars."

"What? Seventy-five dollars for that dog frame?"

"I guess you're a fool any way," says the dog man: "you don't know a
hound from a tan yard cur, you jackass! Phe-e-wt! come along, Jerry!"
and the man and dog disappeared.

The man with the hollow dog had not stepped out two minutes, before the
servant appeared with two more dog merchants; both had their specimens
along, and were invited to "step in."

"Ah! that's a dog!" ejaculated the country sportsman, the moment his
eyes lit upon the massive proportions of a thundering edition of Mt. St.
Bernard.

"That _is_ a dog, sir," was the emphatic response of the dog merchant.

"How much do you ask for that dog?" quoth the sportsman.

"Well," says the trader, patting his dog, "I thought of getting about
fifty-five