“That’s a playful dog of yours,” said he to the man who had come in with the brick.
“He is not my dog,” replied the man sullenly.
“Whose dog is it then?” said the landlord.
“I don’t know whose dog it is,” answered the man.
“That won’t do for me, you know,” said the landlord, picking up a picture of the German Emperor, and wiping beer from it with his sleeve.
“I know it won’t,” replied the man; “I never expected it would. I’m tired of telling people it isn’t my dog. They none of them believe me.”
“What do you want to go about with him for, if he’s not your dog?” said the landlord. “What’s the attraction about him?”
“I don’t go about with him,” replied the man; “he goes about with me. He picked me up this morning at ten o’clock, and he won’t leave me. I thought I had got rid of him when I came in here. I left him busy killing a duck more than a quarter of an hour away. I’ll have to pay for that, I expect, on my way back.”
“Have you tried throwing stones at him?” asked Harris.
“Have I tried throwing stones at him!” replied the man, contemptuously. “I’ve been throwing stones at him till my arm aches with throwing stones; and he thinks it’s a game, and brings them back to me. I’ve been carrying this beastly brick about with me for over an hour, in the hope of being able to drown him, but he never comes near enough for me to get hold of him. He just sits six inches out of reach with his mouth open, and looks at me.”