America seems to have been always fatal to Fussie.  Another time when Henry and I were playing in some charity performance in which John Drew and Maude Adams were also acting, he disgraced himself again.  Henry having “done his bit” and put on hat and coat to leave the theater, Fussie thought the end of the performance must have come; the stage had no further sanctity for him, and he ran across it to the stage door barking!  John Drew and Maude Adams were playing “A Pair of Lunatics.”  Maude Adams, sitting looking into the fire, did not see Fussie, but was amazed to hear John Drew departing madly from the text: 

    “Is this a dog I see before me,
    His tail towards my hand? 
    Come, let me clutch thee.”

She began to think that he had really gone mad!

When Fussie first came, Charlie was still alive, and I have often gone into Henry’s dressing-room and seen the two dogs curled up in both the available chairs, Henry standing while he made up, rather than disturb them!

When Charlie died, Fussie had Henry’s idolatry all to himself.  I have caught them often sitting quietly opposite each other at Grafton Street, just adoring each other!  Occasionally Fussie would thump his tail on the ground to express his pleasure.

Wherever we went in America the hotel people wanted to get rid of the dog.  In the paper they had it that Miss Terry asserted that Fussie was a little terrier, while the hotel people regarded him as a pointer, and funny caricatures were drawn of a very big me with a very tiny dog, and a very tiny me with a dog the size of an elephant!  Henry often walked straight out of an hotel where an objection was made to Fussie.  If he wanted to stay, he had recourse to strategy.  At Detroit the manager of the hotel said that dogs were against the rules.  Being very tired Henry let Fussie go to the stables for the night, and sent Walter to look after him.  The next morning he sent for the manager.

“Yours is a very old-fashioned hotel, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, very old and ancient.”

“Got a good chef?  I didn’t think much of the supper last night; but still—­the beds are comfortable enough—­I am afraid you don’t like animals?”

“Yes, sir, in their proper place.”

“It’s a pity,” said Henry meditatively, “because you happen to be overrun by rats!”

“Sir, you must have made a mistake.  Such a thing couldn’t—­”

“Well, I couldn’t pass another night here without my dog,” Henry interrupted.  “But there are, I suppose, other hotels?”

“If it will be any comfort to you to have your dog with you, sir, do by all means, but I assure you that he’ll catch no rat here.”

“I’ll be on the safe side,” said Henry calmly.

And so it was settled.  That very night Fussie supped off, not rats, but terrapin and other delicacies in Henry’s private sitting-room.

It was the 1888 tour, the great blizzard year, that Fussie was left behind by mistake at Southampton.  He jumped out at the station just before Southampton, where they stop to collect tickets.  After this long separation, Henry naturally thought that the dog would go nearly mad with joy when he saw him again.  He described to me the meeting in a letter.