This cut him to the quick, and he gave me an awful look. Then, for his anger was still burning in him, he had to give me a dig. “I’ll never trust you again,” he said.
Now I was in a rage. I had done the thing for the best. I was trying to keep peace, and preserve the good name of our circle of dogs.
“You are wilfully misunderstanding me,” I exclaimed.
“A lie is a lie,” he said, with a sullen fire in his dark eyes. “You never lied before.”
“And I never will again,” I yelped at him, “unless I see you trying to kill some one.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him,” he retorted.
“You looked like it,” I said, and we went on arguing and abusing each other for half an hour. We finally got down to the question, is it right to lie under any circumstances? All the dogs heard us yapping and snarling at each other, and they came running, and took a tongue in the argument. They were tremendously excited. A row between two old friends like Gringo and myself was a most startling event in our dog circle.
Some were for lies, some against. Yeggie said a lie was a mighty convenient thing when a dog got in a corner. Sir Walter Scott said it was underbred to lie. Czarina said to lie with discretion was diplomatic. Weary Winnie said she’d rather lie than speak the truth, whereupon she got a nip from Gringo, and was sent to bed.
Finally Gringo turned to me in a passion, and said, “Get home with you—you make yourself cheap coming here so much.”