We both had been taught a number of tricks.  We could sneeze and cough, and be dead dogs, and say our prayers, and stand on our heads, and mount a ladder and say the alphabet,—­this was the hardest of all, and it took Miss Laura a long time to teach us.  We never began till a book was laid before us.  Then we stared at it, and Miss Laura said, “Begin, Joe and Billy—­say A.”

For A, we gave a little squeal.  B was louder.  C was louder still.  We barked for some letters, and growled for others.  We always turned a summersault for S. When we got to Z, we gave the book a push and had a frolic around the room.

When any one came in, and Miss Laura had us show off any of our tricks, the remark always was, “What clever dogs.  They are not like other dogs.”

That was a mistake.  Billy and I were not any brighter than many a miserable cur that skulked about the streets of Fairport.  It was kindness and patience that did it all.  When I was with Jenkins he thought I was a very stupid dog.  He would have laughed at the idea of any one teaching me anything.  But I was only sullen and obstinate, because I was kicked about so much.  If he had been kind to me, I would have done anything for him.

I loved to wait on Miss Laura and Mrs. Morris, and they taught both Billy and me to make ourselves useful about the house.  Mrs. Morris didn’t like going up and down the three long staircases, and sometimes we just raced up and down, waiting on her.

How often I have heard her go into the hall and say, “Please send me down a clean duster, Laura.  Joe, you get it.”  I would run gayly up the steps, and then would come Billy’s turn.  “Billy, I have forgotten my keys.  Go get them.”

After a time we began to know the names of different articles, and where they were kept, and could get them ourselves.  On sweeping days we worked very hard, and enjoyed the fun.  If Mrs. Morris was too far away to call to Mary for what she wanted, she wrote the name on a piece of paper, and told us to take it to her.

Billy always took the letters from the postman, and carried the morning paper up to Mr. Morris’s study, and I always put away the clean clothes.  After they were mended, Mrs. Morris folded each article and gave it to me, mentioning the name of the owner, so that I could lay it on his bed.  There was no need for her to tell me the names.  I knew by the smell.  All human beings have a strong smell to a dog, even though they mayn’t notice it themselves.  Mrs. Morris never knew how she bothered me by giving away Miss Laura’s clothes to poor people.  Once, I followed her track all through the town, and at last found it was only a pair of her boots on a ragged child in the gutter.

I must say a word about Billy’s tail before I close this chapter.  It is the custom to cut the ends of fox terrier’s tails, but leave their ears untouched.  Billy came to Miss Laura so young that his tail had not been cut off, and she would not have it done.