“‘Hang un,’” Jim concluded. “Well,” he added, “I wouldn’t be s’prised if it did come t’ that.”
It did.
In Tog’s eyes there was never the light of love and humour––no amiable jollity. He would come fawning, industriously wagging his hinder parts, like puppies of more favoured degree; but all the while his black eyes were alert, hard, infinitely suspicious and avaricious. Not once, I am sure, did affection or gratitude lend them beauty. A beautiful pup he was, nevertheless––fat and white, awkwardly big, his body promising splendid strength. Even when he made war on the fleas––and he waged it unceasingly––the vigour and skill of attack, the originality of method, gave him a certain distinction. But his 20 eyes were never well disposed; the pup was neither trustful nor to be trusted.
“If he lives t’ the age o’ three,” said Jim Grimm, with a pessimistic wag of the head, “’twill be more by luck than good conduct.”
“Ah, dad,” said Jimmie Grimm, “you jus’ leave un t’ me!”
“Well, Jimmie,” drawled Jim Grimm, “it might teach you more about dogs than you know. I don’t mind if I do leave un t’ you––for a while.”
“Hut!” Jimmie boasted. “I’ll master un.”
“May be,” said Jim Grimm.
It was Jimmie Grimm who first put Tog in the traces. This was in the early days of Tog’s first winter––and of Jimmie’s seventh. The dog was a lusty youngster then; better nourished than the other dogs of Jim Grimm’s pack, no more because of greater strength and daring than a marvellous versatility in thievery. In a bored sort of way, being at the moment lazy with food stolen from Sam Butt’s stage, Tog submitted. He yawned, stretched his long legs, and gave inopportune attention to a persistent flea near the small of his back. When, however, the butt of Jimmie’s whip fell smartly on his flank, he was surprised into an appreciation of the fact that a serious attempt was being made to curtail his freedom; and he was at once alive with resentful protest.