“And if our people had any faults,” added Walter Scott, “the war has taken them all away.”
“Where is the nobleman to-day?” I asked one chill November afternoon of the assembled dogs.
“Down the river,” said Yeggie. “I saw him going Walt Dixon’s way.”
It seemed strange that there should be any connection between this fine old English gentleman and a poor miserable lad from New York, but there was one strong bond of union. They were both ardent fishermen.
Now last spring my master had taken great pains to interest Walt in some form of out-door exercise. He was so lazy that fishing was the only sport he could be induced to undertake, but as time went on, he became an enthusiast, and no one in the whole country round about knew as well as he just which fishing pools to visit to get a bite.
There were several small rivers near us, and Walt knew them all. Sir Edward, finding out that Walt would be of more use to him than any one in the neighbourhood, cultivated him assiduously. My master was delighted. This association was of inestimable benefit to the boy he was trying to befriend.
Yeggie came dancing up to Gringo one day and asked why the distinguished stranger was finding out about fishing in this cold autumn weather.
“Don’t you know, pup?” said Gringo with a wink at me, “that folks hang round what their mouths water for? Give me the name of the dog that lingers long round the kitchen windows, when the good, hot smell of meat is wafted out.”
Yeggie hung his little head.
“The noble baronet is laying out the land for next spring, when he’s coming back to see us all,” Gringo continued. “He’s got to get home soon to his church. He’s a good man—he works. Some folks and some dogs are lazy—they don’t earn their salt.”