"I'd like to see him," went on the man, with an uneasy air.
"Probably you'll find him eating breakfast," said Ollie.
"I don't like to go in," said the man. "Why not?"
"I'm--I'm afraid of the dog."
"Oh!" replied Ollie. "Well, I'm not. Come on," and he stalked
ahead very bravely, while the man followed cautiously behind.
"He's a Mexican," said Smith in explanation afterwards. "All
Mexicans are afraid of dogs."
"That's a pretty broad statement," said Jack, after Smith had
gone. "I believe, if there was a good reward offered, that I
could find a Mexican who isn't afraid of dogs. Though perhaps
it's the hair they're afraid of; Mexican dogs don't have any, you
know."
"Don't any of them have hair?" asked Ollie.
"Not a hair," answered his truthful uncle. "I don't suppose a
Mexican dog would know a hair if he saw it."
"I think that's a bigger story than Smith's," said Ollie.
It was Sunday, and we spent most of the day in the wagon,
though we took a long walk up the valley in the afternoon. The
first thing Ollie said the next morning was, "When are we going
to see the buffaloes?"
Smith had been telling us about them the evening before.
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