It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell with the condemned man.  This was none other than our friend Toozle, the mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly.  This little dog had, during the course of events which have taken so long to recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded.  He had, indeed, been much in every one’s way, when no one had had time or inclination to take notice of him.  He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and severe rebuffs for his pains; and he had also, being a tender-hearted dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not in any way promoted the interests of humanity, or advanced the ends of justice.  Hence our long silence in regard to him.

Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom of that supposed pirate.  His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow.  He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow’s cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.

Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woebegone cast of his ragged countenance.  But we are anticipating.

It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.

Toozle sat down at his feet, looking up in his face sympathetically.

“No, I don’t believe it’s possible,” said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning.  “It’s a joke; that’s wot it is.  Ain’t it, Toozle, my boy?”

Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, as plainly as if he had spoken: 

“Yes, of course it is,—­an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man.”

“Ah! you’re a funny dog,” continued Bumpus; “but you don’t know what it is to be hanged, my boy.  Hanged! why it’s agin all laws o’ justice, moral an’ otherwise, it is.  But I’m dreamin’; yes, it’s dreamin’ I am; but I don’t think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin’ an’ yet wasn’t quite sure.  Really, it’s perplexin’, to say the least on it.  Ain’t it, Toozle?”

Toozle wagged his tail.