“Why,” said my friend, “I think it was a sort of a terrier; but if you choose, I’ll get my servant to call the man; he can’t be very far off.”
“Do,” said I, “send for him.”
In a few moments, the arrival of the dog and man was duly announced, and both were admitted to my apartment. The vendor was one of those black, dirty, low-caste natives, generally attached to European corps, and denominated “cookboys.” Dress—a soldier’s old castoff coat, a dirty cloth round his loins, and a skull-cap on his head. As for the dog, he is not, perhaps, so easily described; he was reddish, stood high on the legs, and had a wild look; his tail and ears, however, were clipped in a very varment sort of manner, evincing decided science in the operator; and his owner assured me, in broken English, that he was “berry high caste dog,” a thoroughbred terrier; his name Teazer, and a capital fellow to worry a cat or a jackal.
The creature did not certainly look altogether like the terriers I had been in the habit of seeing in England; but still, the state of the ears and tail, the name, and above all, the qualifications, were strong primâ facie proofs that he was one. As for the points of difference, they might, I thought, have resulted from the influence of climate, which, as it alters the appearance of the European biped very considerably, might, I very logically inferred, have a similar effect on the quadrupeds imported, or their descendants, in the first or second generation at least. In short, I bought him for Rs. 10, and a great bargain I thought I had; tied him up to the leg of my cot, intending that he should form the nucleus of a future pack. I was, however, destined very shortly after to be put a good deal out of conceit of him.
A few days after I had made my purchase, Captain Marpeet dropped in, and took a seat on my cot as he was wont. Hearing the rattling of a chain underneath, he said,
“What the deuce have you got here, Gernon?”
“A dog,” said I; “a terrier I lately bought.”
“A terrier! eh? Let’s have a look at him.”
Teazer, on being summoned, came out from under the bed, gave himself a shake, and, on seeing Marpeet, who was strange to him, and rather an odd-looking fellow to boot, incontinently cocked up his nose and emitted a most lugubrious howl, one with which the Pariars[[9]] in India are wont to serenade “our chaste mistress, the moon.”
“Halloo,” said Marpeet, with a look of surprise, “where on earth did you get this beast? Why, he’s a regular terrier bunnow.”[[10]]