“Why, hello!” exclaimed the stranger, chancing to cast his eye into the corner formed by the projecting chimney-piece and the wall. “There’s a dog. He seems comfortable,” he added, glad, seemingly, to have hit upon so substantial a subject of conversation. “That rug seems to have been made for him. Does he sleep there every night?”
“That’s his corner, whenever he wants it,” said Charley, rather dryly, and without looking towards the dog. “Let me fill your pipe for you.”
Charley, somehow, did not seem anxious to talk about the dog, but his companion, not observing this, very likely, would not let the subject drop. Rising a little in his chair and peering into the somewhat obscure corner: “He seems to be a—a—”
“Pointer,” said Charley. “He is very old,” added he, by way of a finisher.
“Oh, I understand,—an old hunting-dog of Mr. Poythress’s that he cherishes now for the good he has done in his day.”
This was not exactly a question, but it seemed to require some sort of a reply.
“Well, yes, so one would naturally think; but Mr. Poythress was never much of a Nimrod. It is Mrs. Poythress who claims the old fellow as her property, I believe.”
Charley pulled out his watch in rather a nervous way, looked at the time, and, thrusting it back into his pocket, gave a yawn.
“What rolls of fat he has along his back!” said the stranger, rising, and taking a step or two in the direction of the sleeper.
“Yes,” said Charley, rising, and knocking the ashes from his pipe with a few rapid taps, “it is the way with all old dogs.”