WE knew it was a dog, directly the basket was set down in the hall. We
heard it moving about inside. We sniffed all round. We asked it why it
didn't come out (the basket was tightly tied up with string). "Are you
having a good time in there?" said Roy. "Can't you show your face?" said
I. "He's ashamed of it," said Roy, waving his long bushy tail. Then he
growled a little, and the dog inside growled too; and then, as Roy had
an appointment with the butcher at his own back door, I went out to see
him home.
"I am so sorry I am going away for Christmas with my master," he said
when we parted; "but you must introduce that new dog to me when I come
home. We mustn't stand any of his impudence, eh?"
I was sorry Roy was going away, for Roy is my great friend. He always
fights the battles for both of us. I daresay I might have got into the
way of fighting my own battles, but I never like to interfere with
anybody's pleasure, and Roy's chief pleasure is fighting. As for me, I
think the delights of that recreation are over-estimated.
When my master came home, he opened the basket, and a dog of Irish
family tumbled out, growling and snarling, and hid himself under the
sofa. They wasted more biscuits on him than I have ever seen wasted on
any deserving dog; and at last they got him out, and he consented to eat
some supper. They gave him a much better basket than mine, and we went
to bed.
Next morning, the Irish terrier got out of his basket, stretched
himself, yawned, and insisted on thrashing me before breakfast.
"But I am a dog of peace," I said; "I don't fight."
"But I do, you see," he answered, "that's just the difference."
I tried to defend myself, but he got hold of one of my feet, and held it
up. I sat up, and howled with pain and indignation.
"Have you had enough?" he said, and, without waiting for my answer,
proceeded to give me more.
"But I don't fight," I said; "I don't approve of fighting."
"Then I'll teach you to have better manners than to say so," said he,
and he taught me for nearly five minutes.
"Now then," he said, "are you licked?"
"Yes," I answered; for indeed I was.
"Are you sorry you ever tried to fight with me?"
"Yes," still seemed to be the only thing to say.
"And do you approve of fighting?"
He seemed to wish me to say "yes," and so I said it.
"Very well, then," he said; "now we'll be friends, if you like. Come
along; you have given me an appetite for breakfast."
"Any society worth cultivating about here?" he asked, after the meal, in
his overbearing way.
"I have a very great friend who lives next door," I said; "but I don't
know whether I should care to introduce you to him."
He showed his teeth, and asked what I meant.
"You see, you might not like him; and, if you didn't like him----but
he's a most agreeable dog."
"A good fighter?" asked Rustler.