‘Michel!’ I cried, ‘do you hear that?’
‘Oh yes, I hear it,’ he answered, ‘but those must be the neighbours’ dogs fighting.’
‘Michel, those are Catinat and Pritchard killing each other!’
‘Impossible, sir—I have separated them.’
‘Well, then, they have met again.’
‘It is true,’ said Michel, ‘that scoundrel Pritchard can open the stable-door as well as any one.’
‘Then, you see, Pritchard is a dog of courage; he’ll have opened the stable-door for Catinat on purpose to fight him. Be quick, Michel, I am really afraid one of them will be killed.’
Michel darted into the passage which led to the stable, and no sooner had he disappeared than I knew from the lamentations which I heard that some misfortune had happened. In a minute or two Michel reappeared sobbing bitterly and carrying Pritchard in his arms.
‘Look, sir! just look!’ he said; ‘this is the last we shall see of Pritchard—look what your fine sporting dog has done to him. Catinat, indeed! it is Catilina he should be called!’
I ran up to Pritchard, full of concern—I had a great love for him, though he had often made me angry. He was a dog of much originality, and the unexpected things he did were only a proof of genius.