“Her is a doag, an’ de werry fiershisht an’ wishusest beas’ as ebber yo’ see, sah. A pu’ mung’el her is.”
“A pure mongrel?”
“Yas, sah; a werry pu’ mung’el.”
“I do not think I ever heard of that peculiar breed of dogs.”
“Likely not, sah. Dey is werry yare; werry yare, indeed. An’ dis Tige is one ob de yarest. Yas, sah, her is. Her’s got mastiff an’ bulldog an’ Wushun bloodhoun’ an’—an’—an’—less see, now,—some yudder sort ob sabbage b’ute wishuser nor all de res’. Yas, sah, I sho yo’. An’ all dat go to make Tige de mos’ tore down debbil as ebber libbed. She wouldn’ min’ killin’ a man mo’n she would killin’ ob a yat.”
“And you have orders to loose dat brute on me?”
“W’ich I has, sah.”
“What a savage that sweet love of mine is!” muttered Hanson to himself. Then aloud he said: “I have the right to enter this house. Go around and open the door for me.”
“Couldn’ do it, sah. No, not at no yate in dis yere worl’,” repeated Pompous, solemnly shaking his head.
“I tell you, you idiot, that I have the right to enter this house and insist upon an interview with its mistress. Yes, and the right to remain here as its master. The lady is my wife. You are my servant. Go, and obey my commands, or neglect them at your peril.” Hanson changed his tone from light jesting to grave authority.