'Yes, isn't it, madam? We men must confess to our shame that in many respects we are far behind the dumb animals.'
'Yes, Trofast is really a pearl, sir. He is, beyond comparison, the prettiest dog in all—'
'Constantinople,' interrupted Dr. Hansen.
'That is an old joke of Hansen's,' explained the merchant. 'He has re-christened the Northern Athens the Northern Constantinople, because he thinks there are too many dogs.'
'It is good for the dog-tax,' said some one.
'Yes, if the dog-tax were not so inequitably fixed,' snapped Dr. Hansen. 'There is really no sense in a respectable old lady, who keeps a dog in a hand-bag, having to pay as much as a man who takes pleasure in annoying his fellow-creatures by owning a half-wild animal as big as a little lion.'
'May I ask how you would have the dog-tax reckoned, Dr. Hansen?'
'According to weight, of course,' replied Dr. Viggo Hansen without hesitation.
The old merchants and councillors laughed so heartily at this idea of weighing the dogs, that the disputants at the lower end of the table, who were still vigorously bombarding each other with unalterable opinions, became attentive and dropped their opinions, in order to listen to the discussion on dogs. And the question, 'Can one call a lady a fine lady—a really fine lady—if it be known that on a steamboat she has put her feet up on a stool, and disclosed small shoes and embroidered stockings?' also floated away in the air, unsolved.
'You seem to be a downright hater of dogs, Dr. Hansen!' said the lady next to him, still laughing.