Mr. Jones grew hilarious.
"Come on!" he said. "My eye! This young gent's all roight, 'e is. You lie down an' rest, 'e says! Well, 'ere goes!"
To the huge delight of his companions, he stretched himself at length upon the chesterfield and closed his eyes. William surveyed him with pleasure.
"That's right," he said. "I'll—I'll show you my dog when your legs are better. I've gotter fine dog!"
"What sort of a dog?" said Mr. Blake, resting from his labours to ask the question.
"He's no partic'lar sort of a dog," said William honestly, "but he's a jolly fine dog. You should see him do tricks!"
"Well, let's 'ave a look at 'im. Fetch 'im art."
William, highly delighted, complied, and Jumble showed off his best tricks to an appreciative audience of two (Mr. Jones had already succumbed to the drowsiness that had long been creeping over him and was lying dead to the world on the chesterfield).
Jumble begged for a biscuit, he walked (perforce, for William's hand firmly imprisoned his front ones) on his hind legs, he leapt over William's arm. He leapt into the very centre of an old Venetian glass that was on the floor by the packing-case and cut his foot slightly on a piece of it, but fortunately suffered no ill-effects.