“Bert here has been workin’ for the FBI,” Emmet said, petting his blue tick hound.
“Sez you,” mumbled Grover, tugging at his ball cap.
“Yes, sez I,” Emmet said indignantly. “When the FBI is in this neck of the woods, they borry him. Seems counterfeiters can’t get their hands on regulation government money ink. So’s they’s got to use counterfeit ink. Everbody knows a blue tic hound’s nose is so sensitive he can sniff out a bogus bill printed up in counterfeit ink in a heartbeat.”
“I didn’t think you thought very highly of the law enforcement establishment.”
“Don’t matter what I think, it’s Bert they has dealins’ with.”
“Don’t know if I believe that or not,” Grover sniffed.
“I’ll prove it to you, unless you’re too chicken,” Emmet shot back.
“Alright, prove it.”
Emmet eyed Grover, then asked, “You got any foldin’ money on you that Ole Bert can check?”
“What, ain’t you got no money?” Grover laughed.
“Don’t be silly, he’s done checked all a mine. I ain’t goin’ ‘round with no counterfeit money in my pocket. Don’t you know that’s a crime? Now you got any money on you or not? The bigger the better. Counterfeiters ain’t much for foolin’ with the small stuff. ”
“Keep your shirt on,” Grover snickered, digging a twenty out of his pocket.
“Go check it, boy,” Emmet barked. Bert sauntered over to Grover and snatched the bill from his outstretched hand. Meandering back, he deposited the bill in Emmet’s lap before flopping down on the porch. Emmet folded the bill and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Wait jus’ a minute,” Grover wailed, “why’d you do that?”
“As a bony fried agent of the FBI, Bert’s got to confiscate any and all fake money he sniffs out. Seems like you had a bad bill.”
“How come it to end up in your pocket then?” Grover moaned.
“Don’t you know nothin’ bonehead? Dogs ain’t got no pockets.”
Grover sighed, “Well, can’t argue with that.”