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 the little beast sufficiently to afford it a pretext for howling and snapping at my calf. If I am only upset, the woman contents herself with glaring at me murderously, and perhaps muttering the word "Brute!" in an undertone. If I tread upon it (I often wish I weighed twenty stone) she screams, faints, and calls a policeman. Sometimes she personally assaults me. I solemnly aver that the last time I trod upon that canine imp, that—that Person (I will not call her an Old Frump)—struck at me with her parasol.

The pug is perhaps, on the whole, a little less irritating, because he is an invalid, with a chronic snuffle, and consequently takes only carriage exercise, wherefore his opportunities of mingling with and snapping at my legs are necessarily restricted. Personally I believe that what he chiefly suffers from is overfeeding; nevertheless I never see him in the company of the Miss Pegram who overfeeds him but that unattractive person scowls malignantly at me, plainly expressing her conviction that I am somehow responsible for the brute's ailments. I really wish I were. He shouldn't suffer from that ailment long, I promise him; I'd change it for a less pleasant one. There he goes as I write. The brougham (which is really a cab with no number) has been ordered out for him, and he is being held up to the window to enjoy the scenery. His bloated, dyspeptic face occupies a corner of the aperture, and his goggle eyes stand out from his head in a way that induces a momentary gleam of hope that he is being choked. Some day, in the course of the overfeeding, he may be, and the reflection gives me some comfort, Meantime I speculate upon the origin of the black mark on each of the cur's cheeks. These are called "kissing-spots," I am told. If that is really where Miss Pegram Kisses him, I don't wonder at the existence of those black spots.

Next door, on the other side, Blenkinsop keeps a different sort of dog. The exact species of this dog it would be difficult to name, although personally I believe he is like a man of fashion with his clubs, and enjoys the distinction of belonging to several. Blenkinsop himself labours under a vague delusion that he is possessed of some sort of dog of the chase, although, whether a foxhound, a pointer, or a staghound, he never gives a definite opinion. My housekeeper's son (who a vulgar lad) calls it a tripe-hound, conveying in this name a delicate hint at an object of chase more to the animal's taste than either foxes or stags. Whatever may be its correct classification, it is certain that it embodies a very strong cross of some species of dog which never goes to sleep, and conscientiously objects to any other creature doing so. It is, in one respect at any rate, a really wonderful dog. By some mystic operation of instinct he divines the exact moment of the night at which—perhaps after long wakefulness—I am just dozing off. He announces his discovery by a weird yell, and