“I should smile.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad to hear he’s a semi-philanthropist.”
“Say—just spell that word, will you?” said my friend with mock politeness. I spelt it for him, then he said, “Were you ever a preacher’s dog?”
“Yes,” I said, “and he was a fine fellow.”
“Were you ever a saloon-keeper’s dog?” he went on with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
“Yes,” I said with a laugh, for I rejoiced to see how keen he was.
Before I left the South, I had to associate with coloured dogs for a time, and while they were kindness itself, they were not quick-witted like the white dogs.
“I guess you were an actor’s dog too, weren’t you?” continued old Gringo, for I had seen his name over his kennel.
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“And a grocer’s dog, and a milkman’s dog, and a doctor’s dog, and a postman’s dog, and a thousand ladies’ dog, and in short you’re a very——”