“Tell him to play dead.”
Henry the Eighth “played dead”—with his beady eyes wide open, however—and then sat up on his haunches and begged.
“Now, see what he’ll do if you try to pat his head.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like to risk—er—he is quite likely to nip my fingers if I—”
“If he tries it, spank him once or twice.”
Henry the Eighth plucked up the courage to growl when the minister’s left hand neared his head. An instant later, the flat of Mr. Sage’s right hand came in contact with a portion of Henry’s anatomy that already had suffered considerable pain and indignity. Whereupon he squeezed out an apologetic little yelp and turned over on his back to play dead again. Mr. Sage solemnly shook both of the feathery front paws and called him a nice doggie. He had to call him a nice doggie three times, and, besides that, had to show his teeth in a broad, ingratiating smile before Henry was willing to trust his own eyes and ears. He wagged his bushy tail weakly, experimentally.
“Nice doggie,” said Mr. Sage again.
“Don’t overdo it,” warned Oliver. “Don’t be too polite to him. He’ll be thinking he’s a lion again, Uncle Herbert.”
“I wouldn’t have Mrs. Sage know that I’ve thrashed him for anything in the world,” said the minister guiltily. “You won’t mention it, my lad?”
“I can’t promise not to tell Jane about it.”