Wilkins, among his other possessions, owned an uncommonly homely dog which was a source of considerable interest to my youngest.
You see we were never the proud owners of even a brindle cur, and of course Harold made friends with Rover from the very start.
Whenever the beast wanted to play he would whirl around in a circle, chasing his own tail in a comical manner that never failed to make us laugh.
That humorous tale would have been worth a small fortune if properly brought to the attention of the editor of the Sunday paper comic section.
Harold had stood and looked at the revolving beast nearly ten minutes, urging him on with sundry shouts.
Then he turned to me.
"What kind of a dog is that, pa?"
I'm no connoisseur of dogs, and was never made a judge in a bench show in my life.