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It is to be feared that that friendship, deep and tender as it grew to be on both sides, perhaps particularly on Teddy’s, was the indirect cause of Puppy’s death.  I have referred to Teddy’s bark, and how he is not wont to waste it on trivial occasions, or without due thought.  On the other hand, he is proud of it, and loves to practice it—­just for its own sake, particularly on early mornings, when, however fine a bark it is, most of our neighbours would rather continue sleeping than wake up to listen to it.  There is no doubt at all, for those who understand him, that it is a purely artistic bark.  He means no harm to any one by it.  When the milkman, his private enemy, comes at seven, the bark is quite different.  This barking of Teddy’s seems to be literally at nothing.  Around five o’clock on summer mornings, he plants himself on a knob of rock overlooking the salt marsh and barks, possibly in honour of the rising sun, but with no other perceptible purpose.  So have I heard men rise in the dawn to practice the cornet—­but they were men, so they ran no risk of their lives.  Teddy’s practicing, however, has now been carried on for several years in the teeth of no little peril; and, had it not been for much human influence employed on his behalf, he would long since have antedated his little friend in Paradise.  When that little friend, however, came to assist and emulate him in those morning recitals, adding to his bark an occasional—­I am convinced purely playful—­bite, I am inclined to think that a sentiment grew in the neighbourhood that one dog at a time was enough.  At all events, Teddy still barks at dawn as of old, but our little Puppy barks no more.

Before the final quietus came to him, there were several occasions on which the Black dog, called Death, had almost caught him in his jaws.  One there was in especial.  He had, I believe, no hatred for any living thing save Italian workmen and automobiles.  I have seen an Italian workman throw his pick-axe at him, and then take to his heels in grotesque flight.  But the pick-axe missed him, as did many another clumsily hurled missile.

* * * * *

An automobile, however, on one occasion, came nearer its mark.  Like every other dog that ever barked, particularly terriers, Puppy delighted to harass the feet of fast trotting horses, mockingly running ahead of them, barking with affected savagery, and by a miracle evading their on-coming hoofs—­which to him, tiny thing as he was, must have seemed like trip-hammers pounding down from the sky.  But horses understand such gaiety in terriers.  They understand that it is only their foolish fun.  Automobiles are different.  They have no souls.  They see nothing engaging in having their tires snapped at, as they whirl swiftly by; and, one day, after Puppy had flung himself in a fine fury at the tires of one of these soulless things, he gave a sharp yelp—­“not