Bessie shook her head.
“I have never been on horseback in my life; but I can imagine what a pleasure riding must be.”
“What a pity!” he returned briefly. “There is nothing like it.” And so saying, he unlatched a gate and ushered his guest into a small paved yard, and then, opening a door, he uttered a prolonged whistle, and yelps, and a number of dogs, small and large, rushed out upon him.
“Hi, there, Gelert! down, Juno; down, down, good dogs all.” And Richard threatened them with his dogwhip.
“Is this Gelert?” asked Bessie, pointing to a fine black retriever.
“Yes; and that is Brand,” patting the head of a handsome pointer. “That brown setter is Juno; she is the mother of those three puppies—fine little fellows, aren’t they? Look at this curly haired one; two of them are promised to friends; they are a capital breed. Do you care for terriers, Miss Lambert? because Spot is considered a perfect beauty. Look at his coat; it is like satin.”
“And that knowing little fellow, what is his name?” and Bessie pointed to a very small black and tan terrier, who sat up and begged at once.
“Oh, that is Tim; he ought by rights to be a house-dog, but he has taken a fancy to Spot, and insists on sharing his straw bed at night; they both have the run of the house by day—at least, as far as the hall and smoking-room are concerned. My mother hates dogs, and will not tolerate one in the drawing-room.”
“Surely, that is not one of your dogs,” exclaimed Bessie, looking with some disfavor on an ugly white mongrel, with a black patch over one eye; her attention was attracted by the creature’s ugliness. Evidently he knew he was no beauty, for, after uttering a short yelp or two in the attempt to join in the chorus of sonorous barks, he had crept humbly behind Richard, and sat on his haunches, looking up at him with a pathetically meek expression.
“Oh, you mean Bill Sykes; yes, he is a pensioner of mine. Come along, Bill, and say good morning to your master.”