"That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid
dog. His father was honorably mentioned only last year at the
Aquarium."
"Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the way to get
honorably mentioned in this neighborhood," replied my aunt, with
bitterness; "he's just finished killing poor Mrs. McSlanger's cat, if
you want to know what he has been doing. And a pretty row there'll be
about it, too!"
"Can't we hush it up?" said my uncle.
"Hush it up?" retorted my aunt. "If you'd heard the row, you wouldn't
sit there and talk like a fool. And if you'll take my advice," added
my aunt, "you'll set to work on this 'training,' or whatever it is,
that has got to be done to the dog, before any human life is lost."
My uncle was too busy to devote any time to the dog for the next day
or so, and all that could be done was to keep the animal carefully
confined to the house.
And a nice time we had with him! It was not that the animal was
bad-hearted. He meant well--he tried to do his duty. What was wrong
with him was that he was too hard-working. He wanted to do too much.
He started with an exaggerated and totally erroneous notion of his
duties and responsibilities. His idea was that he had been brought
into the house for the purpose of preventing any living human soul
from coming near it and of preventing any person who might by chance
have managed to slip in from ever again leaving it.
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