“I’d kick his ugly little head off,” said Oliver.
“Oh, dear, no! You wouldn’t kick Henry the Eighth, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
They were out on the porch now, Mr. Sage holding the leash at arm’s length and walking in a lopsided, overhanging sort of manner in order to keep his ankles out of reach of Henry the Eighth’s sharp little snappers. Oliver followed down the steps and out upon the sunburnt lawn.
“Does he snap at you like that all the time?” he inquired, sending a swift, searching glance up at the second floor windows.
“I am afraid he does,” said Mr. Sage, dejectedly. “He doesn’t like me.”
“I’ll tell you what, Uncle Herbert,” began Oliver mendaciously; “you just lead him around toward the back of the house, out of sight of those windows up there, and I’ll show you how to break him of that. I love dogs, and I know how to make ’em love me.”
“He will not allow you to pet him, Oliver,” said Mr. Sage hastily.
“I’m not going to pet him,” said Oliver grimly. “You want to break him of biting, don’t you?”
“I should very much like to be on—er—friendly terms with him.”
“All right then. Bring him back this way. We’ll give him his first lesson in politeness. The trouble with Henry the Eighth is he’s been spoiled by women. What he needs is a good sound spanking.”