“What, indeed?”
“Yet, I wouldn’t boast. Your true American never does. You Englishmen, pardon me, talk about the sun never setting on British territory, of your drum rolling and your reveillé beating in a cordon right round the globe, and of your owning the sixth part of the land of this boundless universe, and all the water. Now, if that ain’t boasting—and mebbe it ain’t—it is what I’d call pretty tall talk.”
The laugh became general at this speech of Mr Steve of Glen Alva, and every face beamed.
“You must all come out next spring, gentlemen, and stay a few weeks in my New York mansion. Nay, I won’t take a refusal from one of you. So there! And I guess, too, I can give you a good time of it.”
A beautiful deerhound rose slowly up from the mat and leaned his great head on the table. He did not wish to join the conversation. He was only craving a biscuit.
Steve flicked a walnut at the head, which struck the poor animal on the eye, and evidently caused him great pain. He did not howl, however—Scotch deerhounds are far too game for that; but he shut his eye, which watered a deal, and went and lay down again on the rug with a big sigh, and all the rest of the evening was engaged licking his pastern, and applying it tenderly to the eye. This is a dog’s way of administering a warm fomentation.
“Capital shot, eh?” laughed Steve.
“Yes,” from some of his guests.
“But I say, you know, Mr Steve,” said one, with probably something of kindness to God’s lower creation in his heart, “I say, it wouldn’t do to go to the hill with blind dogs. Would it?”