Eagerly, yet with no show of his stark eagerness, he drew up a rickety chair to the board; and began to eat. Nor did he abandon the table manners which, like correct speech, were his birthright. Royce, covertly watching, was impressed.
The collie lay down at Brean’s feet. The pup was hungry. But he did not beg. This, too, impressed Royce Mack. Picking up a greasy lump of pork from the central dish, Royce tossed it to the pup. The latter caught it in mid-air—an easy trick his breeder had long since taught him. Then he proceeded to eat it,—not wolfishly, but with a certain highbred daintiness.
“What’s his name?” asked Mack.
“Treve,” said Brean, trying not to sound as if his mouth were chuck-full.
“Funny name for a dog,” commented Royce.
“Not in my country,” civilly contradicted Brean, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“What’s the matter with his ear?” pursued Mack.
“Torn in a fight,” replied Brean, wishing devoutly there might be more eating and less talking at this meal. “I set it, as best I could. It’s only makeshift. But the splint and the bandage must stay on, for a few days. After that the ear will be as good as new.”
“H’m!” marveled Royce, noting the skill wherewith the bandage was applied. “You dressed it as neat as a doctor.”