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 had a veal cutlet in his mouth, which he had just taken out of the frying-pan.

'Monsieur Dumas!' cried the maid, 'Monsieur Dumas! stop your dog!'

We tried; but Pritchard passed between Michel and me like a flash of lightning.

'It seems,' said Michel, 'that he likes his veal underdone.'

'My good woman,' I said to the cook, who was still pursuing Pritchard, 'I fear that you are losing time, and that you will never see your cutlet again.'

'Well, then, let me tell you, sir, that you have no right to keep and feed a thief like that.'

'It is you, my good woman, who are feeding him today, not I.'

'Me!' said the cook, 'it's—it's M. Corrège. And what will M. Corrège say, I should like to know?'

'He will say, like Michel, that it seems Pritchard likes his veal underdone.'

'Well, but he'll not be pleased—he will think it's my fault.'

'Never mind, I will invite your master to luncheon with me.'

'All the same, if your dog goes on like that, he will come to a bad end. That is all I have to say—he will come to a bad end.' And she stretched out her broom in an attitude of malediction towards the spot where Pritchard had disappeared.

We three stood looking at one another. 'Well,' said I, 'we have lost Pritchard.'

'We'll soon find him,' said Michel.

We therefore set off to find Pritchard, whistling and calling to him, as we walked on towards Vatrin's shooting ground. This search lasted for a good half-hour, Pritchard not taking the slightest notice of our appeals. At last Michel stopped.

'Sir,' he said, 'look there! Just come and look.'