Free Time Travelers Strictly Cash by Spider Robinson Page B

his family received, by way of booby-prize, a valuable sheepdog from the Royal Kennels. This consoled them greatly, for truly it is written…”
    And here he actually paused to sip his scotch again, daring us to guess the punchline:
    “… For the mourning after a terrible knight, nothing beats the dog of the bear that hit you.”
    A howl again began to arise-and then suddenly a howl arose.
    I mean a real howl.
     
    So of course we all swiveled around in our chairs, and damned if there wasn’t a guy with a German shepherd sitting near the door. I hadn’t seen them come in, and it took me a second to notice that the dog had a glass of gin on the floor in front of him, half-empty.
    As we gaped, open-mouthed, the dog picked up the half full glass in his teeth (without spilling a drop), carried it to the hearth, and with a flick of his powerful head, flung it into the fireplace hard enough to bust it. He turned and looked at us then, wagging his tail as if to make sure we understood that he was commenting on the Doc’s tale. Then, to underline the point, he turned back to the fireplace, lifted his leg and put out a third of the ftre.
    We roared with laughter, a great simultaneous outburst of total glee, and the dog trotted proudly back to his master. I looked the guy over: medium height, a little thin, nose like an avalanche about to happen and a great sprawling fungus of a mustache clinging to its underside. He wore Salvation Army-rejects like Mr. Emmett Kelly used to wear, clothes that booked like what starts fires in old warehouses. But his eyes were alert and aware, and he was obviously quite proud of his dog.
    Then he caught Callahan’s eye, and winced. “You got a house rule on dogs, Mister?” he asked. You could hardly see his lips move under that ridiculous mustache.
    Callahan considered the matter. “We try not to be human-chauvinists around here,” he allowed at last. “Only house rule on dogs, Mister?“he asked. You could hardly see his lips move under that ridiculous mustache.
    “Are you kiddin’?” the guy mumbled. “This dog mess on the floor? Why, this is the Smartest Dog In The World.” He said it just like that, with capital letters.
    “Uh-huh,” said Long-Drink. “He talks, right?”
    A strange gleam came into the shabby man’s eyes.
    “Yep.”
    “Oh for God’s sake,” Doc Webster groaned. “Don’t tell me. A talking dog has walked into Callahan’s Place on Tall Tales Night. If that hound tops my story, I’m going on the wagon for the whole night.”
    That broke everyone up, and Long-Drink McGonnigle was particularly tickled (say that three times fast with whiskey in your mouth). “Patron saint of undershorts,” he whooped, “it makes so much sense I almost believe it.”
    “You think I’m kidding?” the stranger asked.
    “That or crazy,” the Dcc asserted. “A dog hasn’t got the larynx to talk-let alone the mouth structure-even if he is as smart as you say.”
    “I’ve got two hundred dollars says you’re wrong”, the stranger announced. He displayed a fistfull of bills. “Any takers?”
    Well, now. We’re a charitable bunch at Callahan’s, not normally inclined to cheat the mentally disturbed. And yet there was a clarity to his speech that belied his derelict’s clothes, a twinkle in his eye that looked entirely sane, and a challenging out-thrust to his chin that reminded us of a kid daring you to hit him. And there was that wildly improbable handful of cash in his hand. “I’ll take ten of that,” I said,digging for my wallet, and a dozen other guys chimed in. “Me too.” “I’ll take ten.” “I’m in for five.” Doc Webster took a double sawbuck’s worth, and even Fast Eddie produced a tattered single. The guy collected the dough in a hat that looked like its former owner had been machine-gunned in the head, and the whole time that damn dog just sat there next to the table, watching the action.
    When the guy had it all counted, there was a hundred