The unworthy citizen smiled mournfully, but said nothing.
“Steve,” Charley pursued, “I hope that between the phenomenon Mr. Prof. Rhadamanthus, yourself, and your dog, the ‘little ones,’ ‘big ones,’ and every one present, will have a tolerably clear idea of hydrophobia and mad dogs.”
“Please don’t speak of Tip, boys,” Steve said pleadingly.
“No, Steve, we won’t,” George replied. “But really, now,” he added, “I wasn’t so flurried as the rest of them; and I took it coolly; and I doubted all the time whether the dog was mad. You see, I’ve read a good deal on the subject lately, and he hadn’t the build of a dog that would go mad. Mad dogs always look—”
At this point the Sage was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which even Stephen joined feebly.
“Then, George, I suppose you understood that lecture?” Will asked.
“Y-e-s,” George said, with some hesitation.
“Steve, it was me that killed your dog;” Will said doubtfully. [Though the writer has heard hundreds of boys say, “it’s me,” “it’s him,” etc., he never knew but one boy to say, “it is I.” That boy did not say it because he knew it to be correct, but because necessity compelled him to do so. The phrase occurred in a sentence which he was reading.] “It was me that killed your dog; but I thought I was killing a mad dog at the time. I’m sorry for it, Steve.”
“No, Will; you did all right: I don’t blame you a bit;” Steve replied.
“Don’t!” said Marmaduke, softly. “Respect Steve’s grief, and talk about something else.”