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 never will be. Again and again I have calculated from the table of probabilities how long an ordinary dog might expect to live, making an average of only twenty-seven such rushes at vehicles a day, and the period has passed many times over without an accident. Men who push barrows know this dog, and slacken their pace as they near him. I myself daren't run to catch a train; he would take a piece out of my calf if I did; he growls menacingly at a sharp walk. And if I walk slowly he is apt to observe something else on the move, and take a short cut to it between my legs. He terrifies Miss Pegram and her pug in their brougham, which is a redeeming feature; and I will say that I never yet saw him rush at a boy on an errand, or a telegraph messenger.

I confess I was surprised and pained to find that my family solicitor had entered into the dog conspiracy. But, after all, he lets me off comparatively lightly. His dog is an immense St. Bernard, whose antagonism is chiefly of a passive kind, and is only offered when I visit the house. He has a habit of lying at full length across doorways, and pretends, in a sleepy sort of way, not to understand that he is causing an obstruction. If compelled to get up and make way, he first gives one a look of sorrowful reproach, and then slowly and resignedly gets upon his feet, all with an air of long-suffering martyrdom. Beyond this, and knocking me down two or three times, as well as shouldering a light table with loose china and scalding tea bodily on to my knees, I have really very little to complain of in this dog. Perhaps I am prejudiced in his favour because of an encounter of his with Miss Pegram's toy spaniel. That wretched insect, secure in the presence of its mistress, made a furious snapping and yelping attack directed to the big dog's face, which it couldn't reach. This attack the majestic Bob (his name is Bob) loftily ignored, until it became an intolerable nuisance, whereupon he calmly lay down on the vile body of his tormentor, and suppressed it utterly. For this I feel grateful to Bob, although he was guilty of the weakness of allowing the cur to be rescued from under him with no broken bones.

Several of my neighbours' dogs add to their other persecutions the outrage peculiar to the swimming dog. I can never take a walk near a pond, lake, canal, or any other body of water larger than a puddle without suffering from some brute which is called an "excellent water dog." They are usually long-haired dogs with coats which hold plenty of water; that is part of the scheme. A dog of this sort will swim about in a muddy pond after sticks and stones thrown in by malevolent idiots on the banks, and, when his coat is thoroughly and completely saturated, will crawl out carefully, taking pains to drop as little of the water as possible until the proper time. He will then look about him and select the best dressed person within easy reach; he will quietly sidle up to this person—from behind, if possible—and, with a sudden jerk and shake of his hide (a movement acquired by long practice), he will discharge a shower of several quarts of dirty water over his victim, who is then expected to smile cheerfully, and pat him. I myself am not usually a particularly well-dressed person, so that if I happen to be present this condition of the performance is varied—he always comes to me. No matter how many better dressed people may be temptingly within range, he invariably disregards them and comes to me.