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Show FICTION NO SALE CORNER By Richard H. Wilkinson "How much?" said Joe, not looking look-ing at him. "Nine hundred." JOE thought of Sylvia. She was probably hungry. She'd be hungrier hung-rier tonight. The only alternative was city relief. A man has his pride. He remembered the hug Sylvia had given Dusty before they left. He thought of the way Dusty would nip at their toes when they were getting dressed in the morning. morn-ing. He shook his head. "No!" he said. "No! Not for twice that amount." The rotund man laughed. "Then how about hiring him? You, too, of course. We're making a picture that requires a cute dog who will go find things that have been hidden." hid-den." Joe threw up his head. "What?" "Think it over," said the rotund man. "Pay would be $25 a day. Here's my card." H smiled. "Hope I didn't insult you with that nine hundred offer. of-fer. Your dog's worth two thousand, thou-sand, if a cent. Never saw a pure black Springer with those lines. Be sure to look me up. If $25 doesn't suit yon, we1 can probably talk terms." Joe stood on the curb and watched the black limousine recede. re-cede. He glanced at the card, then down at Dusty. Dusty was watching him expectantly. He wanted to walk some more. Joe slipped the card into his pocket and started up Vine street at a pace that rather rath-er surprised Dusty. WE could sell Dusty," Sylvia said. Joe stared at her. "You don't mean that!" Dusty thumped his tail on the floor and pricked his ears. There was, he hoped, a possibility of being be-ing taken for a walk up the slope behind the house where rabbits frequently ran and offered no end of excitement. Sylvia laughed nervously. "Of course I don't. I was only joking. We wouldn't sell Dusty for a million mil-lion dollars." She reached down i I and twisted one 3 -Minute of Dusty's flop; ' ping ears around Fiction her forefinger. I I Dusty lolled his tongue and sighed in contentment. Next to chasing rabbits, there was nothing he liked better than having his ears twisted, unless it was hunting ' a glove or an old shoe or pocketbook that either Joe or Sylvia had hidden. hid-den. Joe lay awake that night and thought about what Sylvia had said. He felt guilty and ashamed, but when you haven't enough to eat and you own some property that would bring an easy thousand dollars dol-lars on the open market, you can't help thinking about it. Sylvia's aunt had given them Dusty the week before they left for Hollywood. He was seven sev-en weeks old, a pare bred Springer Spaniel, black as coal and intelligent as two ordinary human beings. The next morning Joe decided to go down onto the boulevard. Sometimes Some-times on the boulevard he met someone he knew and would get talking and perhaps get a line on something. He put Dusty on his leash and started out. Joe turned down Vine street. Just below Selma. "How much?" said Joe, not looking at him. were playing on a lawn. One of them was crying. Joe stopped to see what the trouble was. A little girl had lost her rag doll. It was somewhere about, but he couldn't find it Dusty licked the little girl's a,T Secooed hPPUy and patted his head. The other children crowd- S lUt,J?e unsnaPPed Dusty's leash, held the little girl's skirt to his nose and said: "Go find!" W-7 'et Ut yip and went bounding away. Two minutes later he came back, holding in his mouth the rag doll. The little lit-tle girl clapped her hands. "Smart dog," said a voice Joe turned. A car had stopped at the curb A small round man wUh a friendly face had emerged onto the sidewalk. Joe nodded "Pure Are they?" said the lm l man again. Ule |