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“Ketch ‘im by the tail, sir,” he advised the old gentleman; “don’t you be afraid of him; you ketch ‘im firmly by the tail.”

A milkman, on the other hand, sought rather to encourage Smith, shouting as he passed–

“Good dog, kill him!”

A child, brained within an inch by the old gentleman’s umbrella, began to cry. The nurse told the old gentleman he was a fool–a remark which struck me as singularly apt The old gentleman gasped back that perambulators were illegal on the pavement; and, between his exercises, inquired after myself. A crowd began to collect; and a policeman strolled up.

It was not the right thing: I do not defend myself; but, at this point, the temptation came to me to desert William Smith. He likes a street row, I don’t. These things are matters of temperament. I have also noticed that he has the happy instinct of knowing when to disappear from a crisis, and the ability to do so; mysteriously turning up, quarter of a mile off, clad in a peaceful and pre-occupied air, and to all appearances another and a better dog.

Consoling myself with the reflection that I could be of no practical assistance to him and remembering with some satisfaction that, by a fortunate accident, he was without his collar, which bears my name and address, I slipped round the off side of a Vauxhall bus, making no attempt at ostentation, and worked my way home through Lowndes Square and the Park.

Five minutes after I had sat down to lunch, he flung open the dining-room door, and marched in. It is his customary “entrance.” In a previous state of existence, his soul was probably that of an Actor-Manager.

From his exuberant self-satisfaction, I was inclined to think he must have succeeded in following the milkman’s advice; at all events, I have not seen the colonel since. His bad temper had disappeared, but his “uppishness” had, if possible, increased. Previous to his return, I had given The O’Shannon a biscuit. The O’Shannon had been insulted; he did not want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not want anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and made for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally, and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of the future. “You never know what may happen,” he says; “suppose the Guv’nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this biscuit; I’ll put it under the door-mat–no, I won’t, somebody will find it there. I’ll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it there. That’s a good idea; perhaps it’ll grow!” Once I caught him hiding it in my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It offended me, his doing that; the argument was so palpable. Generally, wherever he hides it somebody finds it. We find it under our pillows–inside our boots; no place seems safe. This time he had said to himself–“By Jove! a whole row of the Guv’nor’s books. Nobody will ever want to take these out; I’ll hide it here.” One feels a thing like that from one’s own dog.

But The O’Shannon’s biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, and commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not tasted food for a week.

The indignation of The O’Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has the good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would probably have given it to him; it was the insult–the immorality of the proceeding, that maddened The O’Shannon.

For a moment he was paralyzed.

“Well, of all the–Did ye see that now?” he said to me with his eyes. Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith’s very jaws. “Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief,” growled The O’Shannon; “how dare ye take my biscuit?”