Gabriel drew a bit of bread out of his pocket, and the dogs snapped at it. "In that regard they are of the right species," he said, a little tranquillized; "but what are they to be called in the house?"
"Bräuhahn I shall call Fighthahn," replied Mr. Hummel; "and in my family no dogs shall be called Goslar. I cannot bear the beastly drink." He cast a hostile look at the neighboring house. "Other people have such stuff fetched every day across the street, but that is no reason why I should suffer such a word in my household. The black shall from this day forth be called Fighthahn and the red Spitehahn--that is settled.
"But, Mr. Hummel, these names are clearly offensive," exclaimed Gabriel; "that will make the matter worse."
"That is my affair," said Mr. Hummel, decidedly. "At night they shall remain in the yard; they must guard the house."
"So long as they do but preserve their bodies," said Gabriel, warningly; "but this kind come and vanish as they please--not as we wish."
"Yet they are not of the devil," rejoined Mr. Hummel, laughing.
"Who speaks of the devil?" replied Gabriel, quickly. "There is no devil--that the Professor will never allow; but of dogs we have various kinds."
So saying, Gabriel took the animals into the hall. Mr. Hummel called out into the room: "Good evening, Philippine. Here, I have brought you a present."
Mrs. Hummel came to the door with a light, and looked astonished at the present, which whined at her feet. This humility disposed the lady to regard them with benevolence.
"But they are frightful," she said, dubiously, as the red and the black sat down on each side of her, wagging their tails land looking up at her from under their shaggy eyebrows. "And why did you bring two?"