During his walks on the Downs with Betty and the two hounds he taught Jan to lie down, stand to attention, gallop in any direction, wheel and return without hesitation; and all this upon the instant of the word of command, or in obedience to a wave of the hand.  He arranged for Betty to take Jan away with her for, say, a quarter of a mile, and then, short of holding him, to use every persuasion she could to keep him beside her.  Then Dick would give a long call, and then another.  It was almost uncanny to see, from the expression on his face, the struggle going on in Jan’s mind.  But the end was always the same.  The second call took him away at the gallop, even from Betty.  Then Jan was taught to remain on guard over any object, such as a stick, a glove, or a cap, while Dick and Betty, and Finn, too, went right away out of sight for, it might be, half an hour.

Jan learned these things readily, and with apparent ease.  Yet his only rewards were an occasional caress and words of praise.  And, apparently, there were no punishments in Dick’s educational system.  At least he never struck Jan.  He really seemed so to influence the young hound that the withholding of praise became a sharp rebuke.  Jan himself had no notion why he allowed Dick to school him, or why he yielded this man a measure of obedience and instant devotion that he had given to no one else.  The basis of Dick’s power was the exceptional gift of magnetism he had—­the special kind of magnetism which makes for the subjugation of their wills and personalities, be they human or animal.

But, over and above this gift, Dick had faultless patience with animals.  He never gave an order without making perfectly certain that it was understood.  And he never betrayed the smallest hint of indecision or lack of assured confidence.

“Stay—­right—­there—­Jan,” he would say.  “Guard—­that.”  His voice was low, his speech slow, emphatic, distinct.  It was a compelling form of speech, and yet, withal, hardly ever harsh or even peremptory.  And when, in the earlier stages, he had occasion to say:  “No, no; that’s no good.  That won’t do at all, Jan”; or, “You’ve got to do a heap better than that, Jan,” the words or their tone seemed to cut the dog as it might have been with a whip-lash.  You could see Jan flinch; not cowed or disheartened, as the dogs trained by public performers often are, but touched to the very quick of his pride, and hungrily eager to do better next time and win the low-voiced:  “Good dog!  That’s fine!  Good dog, Jan!” with, it may be, a caressing pat on the head or a gentle rubbing of both ears.