“That won’t do. Has he a vite spot on the bridge of ’is nose?” asked the boy earnestly.
“I really cannot tell. It is not long—”
“Here, Punch, come here!” called the boy, interrupting.
At the name of Punch my doggie became so demonstrative in his affections that he all but leaped into the boy’s arms, whined lovingly, and licked his dirty face all over.
“The wery dog,” said the boy, after looking at his nose; “only growed so big that his own mother wouldn’t know ’im.—Vy, where ’ave you bin all this long while, Punch?”
“D’you mean to say that you know the dog, and that his name is Punch?”
“Vell, you are green. Wouldn’t any cove with half an eye see that the dog knows me, an’ so, in course, I must know him? An’ ven I called ’im Punch didn’t he answer?—hey?”
I was obliged to admit the truth of these remarks. After the first ebullition of joy at the meeting was over, we went along the street together.
“Then the dog is yours?” said I as we went along.
“No, he ain’t mine. He was mine once—ven he was a pup, but I sold ’im to a young lady for—a wery small sum.”