In particular, he was always attacking Trofast.

‘That big yellow beast,’ he used to say, ’is being petted and pampered and stuffed with steak and cutlets, while many a human child must bite its fingers after a piece of dry bread.’

This, however, was a tender point, of which Dr. Hansen had to be rather careful.

Whenever anyone mentioned Trofast in words that were not full of admiration, he received a simultaneous look from the whole family, and the merchant had even said point-blank to Dr. Hansen that he might one day get seriously angry if the other would not refer to Trofast in a becoming manner.

But Miss Thyra positively hated Dr. Hansen for this; and although Waldemar was now grown up—­a student, at any rate—­he took a special pleasure in stealing the gloves out of the doctor’s back pocket, and delivering them to Trofast to tear.

Yes, the good-wife herself, although as mild and sweet as tea, was sometimes compelled to take the doctor to task, and seriously remonstrate with him for daring to speak so ill of the dear animal.

All this Trofast understood very well; but he despised Dr. Hansen, and took no notice of him.  He condescended to tear the gloves, because it pleased his friend Waldemar, but otherwise he did not seem to see the doctor.

When the cutlets came, Trofast ate them quietly and discreetly.  He did not crunch the bones, but picked them quite clean, and licked the platter.

Thereupon he went up to the merchant, and laid his right fore-paw upon his knee.

‘Welcome, welcome, old boy!’ cried the merchant with emotion.  He was moved in like manner every morning, when this little scene was re-enacted.

‘Why, you can’t call Trofast old, father,’ said Waldemar, with a little tone of superiority.

‘Indeed!  Do you know that he will soon be eight?’

‘Yes, my little man,’ said the good wife gently; ’but a dog of eight is not an old dog.’

‘No, mother,’ exclaimed Waldemar eagerly.  ’You side with me, don’t you?  A dog of eight is not an old dog.’

And in an instant the whole family was divided into two parties—­two very ardent parties, who, with an unceasing flow of words, set to debating the momentous question:—­whether one can call a dog of eight years an old dog or not.  Both sides became warm, and, although each one kept on repeating his unalterable opinion into his opponent’s face, it did not seem likely that they would ever arrive at unanimity—­not even when old grandmother hurriedly rose from her chair, and positively insisted upon telling some story about the Queen-Dowager’s lap-dog, which she had had the honour of knowing from the street.

But in the midst of the irresistible whirl of words there came a pause.  Some one looked at his watch and said:  ‘The steamboat.’  They all rose; the gentlemen, who had to go to town, rushed off; the whole company was scattered to the four winds, and the problem—­whether one can call a dog of eight an old dog or not—­floated away in the air, unsolved.