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“Oh, you’re very pious! But Rover can whip your Bose, anyhow.”

“No, he can’t, though,” replied Henry quickly, who could not bear to hear his father’s faithful and favourite old dog’s courage called in question.

“Yes, but he can, ten times a day. There, Rover! There, sck!–sck!–sketch him!” At the same time pushing Rover against Bose.

Both dogs growled low, and showed their teeth, but that was all.

“Rover’s afraid to touch him!” said Henry, a good deal excited.

“No, he is not, though!” returned Dick, his face glowing with interest; and, lifting up the forefeet of Rover, he threw him full against old Bose, who received the onset with a deep growl and a strong impression of his teeth on Rover.

This brought on the battle. Bose was nine or ten years old, and somewhat worn down by age and hard service, while Rover had numbered but two years, and was full of fire and vigor. Still the victory was not soon decided. During the fight, each of the boys entered into the spirit of the contest almost as much as the dogs. First one would interfere to secure for his favourite the victory, and then the other, until, at last, Dick struck Henry; and then they went at it likewise, and fought nearly as long, and certainly with as much desire to injure each other, as did the dogs themselves. The result was that both Henry and Bose had to yield, and then the parties separated, indulging against each other bitter and angry feelings. But with Dick there was an emotion of cruel delight at having triumphed over his friend. As he was crossing a field, on his way home, he met Mr. Acres.

“Why, what’s the matter with you and Rover?” the farmer asked.

“Rover’s had a fight,” replied Dick.

“Ah! Who with?”

“Mr. Jones’s Bose.”

“Well, which whipped?”

“Rover, of course,” replied Dick, with a smile of triumph; “and I can make him whip any thing.”

“You’re a keen chap, Dick,” said Mr. Acres, patting the boy on the head, “and are going to make a man one of these days, I see plainly enough. So Rover whipped. I knew there was prime stuff in him.”

“There isn’t another such a fellow in these ‘ere parts,” was Dick’s proud answer.

“But you look a little the worse for wear, as well as Rover. Have you been fighting, too?”

Dick held down his head for a moment, and then looking up into Mr. Acres’s face, said–

“Yes, sir,” in rather a sheepish way.

“Ah! well, who have you been fighting with?”

“With Harry Jones. He didn’t want to give Rover fair play; and once, when he had Bose down, he kicked him.”

“And then you kicked him for kicking your dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was right. Never permit a friend to be imposed upon. And after that you had a regular fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which whipped?”

“I gave him a bloody nose; and shouldn’t wonder if he had a black eye into the bargain. And what is more, made him cry ‘enough.'”

“That was right. Never fight but in a good cause, and then be sure to whip your man.”

“It’ll take a smarter boy than Harry Jones to whip me,” said Dick proudly.

“And you think Rover can whip any thing about here?”

“Yes, indeed. And I’m going to make him do it, too.”

“You’d better not try him against Markland’s old Nero.”

“He’ll whip him in ten minutes.”

“I’m not so sure of that. Nero is a great deal bigger and stronger.”

“I don’t care if he is. I’m learning Rover a trick that’ll make him whip a dog twice his size.”

“What is that?”

Dick called Rover, and the dog came up to him wagging his tail.

“Give us your paw,” said the boy, in a tone of authority.

The dog instantly lifted one of his forefeet, which Dick took in his hand, and began to squeeze gently at first, and then, by degrees, harder and harder, ejaculating all the while, in a quick distinct tone–“Leg him! leg him! leg him!” until the dog, from first indicating signs of pain, began to whine, and then to yell out as if in agony. At this, Dick dropped the foot, and looked up into the farmer’s face.