He bounded over me, licked my face furiously, and scratched enthusiastically at my shirt front.
He was wet, and his fur laden with mud, as the butler had said, and my clothes suffered from his demonstrativeness, but his feelings were of more import than a dress-coat, and I would not have hurt them by checking his greeting.
"Dear old boy," I said, taking the collar off with which he had been chained up,—and just then my father came into the room.
"Ah, got back, Victor?"
"Yes," I said, looking up.
"They've rejected your last, eh?" he said at once.
"Yes. Why? Have they sent it? How did you know it was rejected?"
"By your face, my dear boy," answered my father.
"It's odd that these failures knock you up still. You must be accustomed to them now!"
That was cutting, and it cut.