That was all he wanted of the pond. One more lesson he had, when Betsy was not by to rescue him. He was thrown in again and again, until he was a thoroughly disgusted little dog, with a hatred for the very sight of water. From that time on he never willingly wet his feet. He hated even his bath and would run and hide if any one mentioned the word to him. But he learned that baths must be taken, no matter how disagreeable. A Prince must be clean, if he would live in a palace; and Betsy, in her new zeal for soap and water, took him in charge herself, and continued to scrub him faithfully.
The rest of Thatcher’s efforts at training resulted in a series of failures. Thatcher was willing, but Van was not. He did not intend to be trained by his valet, and one, too, who had betrayed him at the outset. Where confidence is lacking one cannot get great results in dealing with a wilful son of royalty.
The next instructor was more successful.
Dr. Peters, one of the young physicians at the Hospital, came over one morning on an errand. He was made acquainted with Van and duly admired him.
“Have you taught him any tricks, Miss Betsy?”
“No, I don’t know how to teach him.”
“Let me try him. He looks as bright as a button. You can teach anything to a dog like that, if you go at it in the right way. Come here, Van.”
Van came, expecting a game of romps, or, at the very least, a pat on the head.
“Dead Dog!” said Dr. Peters; and Van found himself unaccountably flat on his back, waving his helpless paws in the air.
“Dead Dog!” Dr. Peters repeated,—“Dead! Dead! Now shut your eyes,—tight!” Two fingers closed their lids.