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 as household scraps. Still he manages to find a few guileless boys now and again—new to London, I expect—who at first take him at his own valuation before passing over to the ranks of the bitten and hostile. They even take the vicious beast with them when they go fishing, with a bent pin and a tin can. I wonder why.

If anything were wanting further to illustrate the completeness of the plot against my peace of mind, it would be found in the stray mongrel machination. There is a kind of dog whom nobody ever owns—whom no reasonable person ever would think of owning; but all the dogs of this kind insist upon being owned by me. I scarcely go out but one of these miserable creatures follows me. He avoids attracting my attention at first, but trots quietly at my heels, probably being of the opinion that if only he keeps by me long enough I shall begin to believe after all that he really does belong to me, and has all his life. He always has a broken piece of string hanging from his neck, which leads me to believe that somebody has been trying to drown him with a brick, and has failed. Nothing will shake him off. It I go into a house, he tries to follow me; and, if prevented, sits on the doorstep and waits till I come out. When at last I seek refuge my own house, he sits on my doorstep all night and howls in response to Blenkinsop's tripe-hound. Finally, I have to bribe a boy to steal him from me.

But there is one dog about here which, I verily believe, has nothing to do with the conspiracy. He's a bull-dog, and I think comes from the mews. I never heard this dog bark or howl, and never heard of his hurting a soul. Nevertheless many ladies—including, I am glad to say, the Misses Pegram—fall into fits of terror at his approach. He lumbers along at a stable-boy's heels, with the broadest and most amiable of grins, and other dogs keep out his way—the black dog vanishes entirely. It is just possible that that black dog snapped at him once, or perhaps attempted to take a sample of the stable-boy's trousers, and consequently feels an awkwardness about meeting him again. But who shall know the ways of dogs? Perhaps, while I am praising this very bull-dog, he is filling that immense mouth of his from some inoffensive person's leg. But, as the leg isn't mine, and I hate unreasonable grumbing, I won't grumble about that.