“Oho! that’s it, is it?” I replied. “You think German dogs lead the universe.”
“Of course they do.”
“Well then, if they do, they ought to be perfect.”
“They are perfect,” he said in astonishment. “Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t. I believed American dogs, and English dogs, and even coloured dogs, are just as good as German dogs, if they behave themselves.”
“You’re a socialist,” he said, “a dangerous dog.”
I stared at his ridiculous, little, short-legged swagger, as he swung up and down before me.
“Now I’m going to tell you something,” I said, “as force alone appeals to you. That little griffon belongs, as you probably know, to Mrs. Warrington whose sister married an Englishman—Lord Alstone. Now I happen to know that Lady Alstone is to arrive here to-morrow on a visit to her sister, and with her ladyship comes her English mastiff. You’re probably going to get the greatest licking a dog ever got, for the griffon and the mastiff are always very chummy, and he will be sure to tell of the treatment he has been receiving from you. A family dog will fight you far harder than outsiders like the Drive dogs.”
The Dachshund looked alarmed.
“I’m sorry for you,” I said, “auf wiedersehen.”