“If they get to fighting after all we’ve done for them, kick in their ribs, lovey,” he told his wife.

“There!  You would, would you?”—­this to a large black dog, accompanied by a savage kick in the side.  The animal yelped its pain as it fled away, and, from a safe distance, looked on piteously at the steaming food.

“Well, after this they can’t say I don’t never give my dogs a bath,” Davis remarked from the sink, where he was rinsing his arms.  “What d’ye say we call it a day’s work, my dear?” Mrs. Davis nodded agreement.  “We can rehearse them to-morrow and next day.  That will be plenty of time.  I’ll run in to-night and boil them some bran.  They’ll need an extra meal after fasting two days.”

The potatoes finished, the dogs were put back in their cages for another twenty-four hours of close confinement.  Water was poured into their drinking-tins, and, in the evening, still in their cages, they were served liberally with boiled bran and dog-biscuit.  This was Michael’s first food, for he had sulkily refused to go near the potatoes.

* * * * *

The rehearsing took place on the stage, and for Michael trouble came at the very start.  The drop-curtain was supposed to go up and reveal the twenty dogs seated on chairs in a semi-circle.  Because, while they were being thus arranged, the preceding turn was taking place in front of the drop-curtain, it was imperative that rigid silence should be kept.  Next, when the curtain rose on full stage, the dogs were trained to make a great barking.

As a filler-in, Michael had nothing to do but sit on a chair.  But he had to get upon the chair, first, and when Davis so ordered him he accompanied the order with a clout on the side of the head.  Michael growled warningly.

“Oh, ho, eh?” the man sneered.  “It’s Fresh Dog looking for trouble.  Well, you might as well get it over with now so your name can be changed to Good Dog.—­My dear, just keep the rest of them in order while I teach Fresh Dog lesson number one.”

Of the beating that followed, the least said the better.  Michael put up a fight that was hopeless, and was thoroughly beaten in return.  Bruised and bleeding, he sat on the chair, taking no part in the performance and only sullenly engendering a deeper and bitterer sourness.  To keep silent before the curtain went up was no hardship for him.  But when the curtain did go up, he declined to join the rest of the dogs in their frantic barking and yelping.

The dogs, sometimes alone and sometimes in couples and trios and groups, left their chairs at command and performed the conventional dog tricks such as walking on hind-legs, hopping, limping, waltzing, and throwing somersaults.  Wilton Davis’s temper was short and his hand heavy throughout the rehearsal, as the shrill yelps of pain from the lagging and stupid attested.

In all, during that day and the forenoon of the next, three long rehearsals took place.  Michael’s troubles ceased for the time being.  At command, he silently got on the chair and silently sat there.  “Which shows, dearest, what a bit of the stick will do,” Davis bragged to his wife.  Nor did the pair of them dream of the scandalizing part Michael was going to play in their first performance.