“I’m sure he’s not,” cried the Wallypug, indignantly, and patting Kis-Smee’s head.
“He is,” declared the man. “All dogs are mad, and I insist upon them being muzzled.”
“Very well,” I interposed. “You had better try and put a muzzle on this one yourself.”
“Oh! I’ll soon do that,” cried the man, selecting a large muzzle from the collection which he carried with him. “Come here, sir! Good dog, then.”
Kis-Smee growled, and grinning more than ever made a dart at the man, who dropped his muzzles and fled, screaming, “Mad dog! Mad dog!” at the top of his voice.
His Majesty and myself, laughing heartily at his discomfiture, hurried back to the train without meeting with any further adventures.
A. Fish, Esq., and Mike seemed to be rather cool towards each other, I thought, and I heard afterwards that they had not got on at all well with the “elocution” lesson—in fact, Mike had absolutely refused to be instructed in that very necessary art.
Of course we told them of our adventure with the man in the wood, and Mike explained that he was well known as “The Long Man of Muzzledom,” and was quite harmless, though rather silly, being under the impression that all dogs and cats were mad and should be muzzled.
“Well, he didn’t muzzle Kis-Smee, anyhow,” said his Majesty, as we took our seats in the carriage, and the train once more started for Why.
After several hours of bumping and jolting, we were delighted to see the familiar towers and gables of his Majesty’s palace in the distance, and knew that we had at last arrived at the end of our journey.