The horse Billy confidently expected to own when he should come into long-tailed coats and moustaches. He knew the high price of a good article, and was willing to wait; but a “trusty hound,” which he could have for the asking, he wanted at once. All the boys belonging to his little clan either owned, or had some time owned, a dog; and when the huntsmen set out for the chase (in pursuit of such noble game as nuts or apples, birds’ eggs or nests) the dogs followed their masters. Those who were not followed had tales to tell—either of mysterious strangers who had lurked about the premises and enticed their dogs away on account of their immense market value, or of bloody street fights in which their brave ones had perished. Each boy except Billy had had his experience, and if not the present possessor of a hound, could boast the noble pedigree or gallant death of one departed.
But it was not altogether Sir Walter, nor an ambition to be the owner of a high-born warrior, which made Billy long for a dog; he was born with a love for them as certain people are born with a love for babies, and he had many fancies about his hound which were not of a bold and bloody nature. He pictured him affectionate and gentle. He pictured him comfortably dozing by the fire on winter evenings; sharing a corner of his room at night; sharing his last crust should changing fortunes make them paupers—always faithful, tender and true, a friend to be relied upon though other friends might fail.
Unfortunately he did not inherit his tastes from his father. That gentleman disliked the canine race in proportion as Billy liked it, and although an indulgent parent generally, would not listen to Billy’s petitions for a dog. Occasionally, however, Billy received such a tempting offer that he was emboldened to renew his pleas, and one day, unable to resist the fascination of a fierce little black-and-tan, began:
“Father, there’s a dog——”
“Once for all,” interrupted his father, rather noisily, “I say, no! Don’t mention that subject to me again, sir! Anything that is reasonable, from a parrot to a monkey, I’ll consider. But you are not to mention dogs to me again, sir!”
“You know papa was bitten once, dear,” said his sister, as the door closed after their angry sire. “You really ought not to tease him. Why won’t you try and be contented with a dear little kitten, or a canary?”
“I’d as soon pet a rattlesnake as a kitten,” said Billy; “one is as mean and sly as the other. And that canary of yours—it’s got just about as much soul as a lump of sugar.”
“How would you like a goat? Goats are big and fierce——”
“A goat is a brute,” said Billy. “As for the dog that bit father, you know it was a bull—the only variety of dog that has any treachery in its blood. I don’t ask to own a bull-dog. But a goat! Do you s’pose Byron could ever have said this about a goat?” (Billy had spoken the poem at school, and proceeded to declaim):