"He only snapped and fetched blood," said De Vere.
"Ah!" cried Bob, "I always thought he wasn't a real good bulldog."
"At any rate, he bit the Irish terrier," said the poet. "I mean the one you sold to me for three pounds."
"I'm glad he did, sir. That Irish terrier, though he's splendidly bred, Baker says, has an awful temper and is very troublesome. Does Rollo, the retriever, howl much at night, sir?"
"Oh, not so very much," said De Vere. "It's only when the moon is near the full that he does his best."
"I never thought of that," said Bob, "but now I remember that it was very moony when I sent him over to you. Baker said you'd like him. His kennel is next to Baker's house."
"I'm much obliged to Baker," said De Vere. "But the tail of the Borzois is still bald, Bob."
Bob opened his eyes wide.
"Oh, dear, I thought you would have cured him by now; and how about his bronchitis?"
"That's better, I hope and trust," said the poet. And Penelope, who was very greatly touched by his kindness to all these dogs, sent Bob into the library.