“A large bull-dog, brindled black and white.”
“Then, by Jove, I've shot him!”
“John, John! you mean me to quarrel in earnest with my friend. How could you do it?”
“Why, how the deuce should I know her dog from another? I caught the big thief in the very act of devouring the eggs from under your sitting hen, and I shot him dead without another thought. But I will bury him, and she will never find it out a bit more than she did who killed the cat.”
Some time after this, Emilia returned from a visit at P——. The first thing she told me was the loss of the dog. She was so vexed at it, she had had him advertised, offering a reward for his recovery.
I, of course, was called upon to sympathise with her, which I did with a very bad grace. “I did not like the beast,” I said; “he was cross and fierce, and I was afraid to go up to her house while he was there.”
“Yes; but to lose him so. It is so provoking; and him such a valuable animal. I could not tell how deeply she felt the loss. She would give four dollars to find out who had stolen him.”
How near she came to making the grand discovery the sequel will show.
Instead of burying him with the murdered pig and cat, John had scratched a shallow grave in the garden, and concealed the dead brute.
After tea, Emilia requested to look at the garden; and I, perfectly unconscious that it contained the remains of the murdered Chowder, led the way. Mrs. —— whilst gathering a handful of fine green-peas, suddenly stooped, and looking earnestly at the ground, called to me—