We tried to get to work afterwards, but Brown had unsettled us for the evening.  It is a wicked thing to start dog stories among a party of average sinful men.  Let one man tell a dog story, and every other man in the room feels he wants to tell a bigger one.

There is a story going—­I cannot vouch for its truth, it was told me by a judge—­of a man who lay dying.  The pastor of the parish, a good and pious man, came to sit with him, and, thinking to cheer him up, told him an anecdote about a dog.  When the pastor had finished, the sick man sat up, and said, “I know a better story than that.  I had a dog once, a big, brown, lop-sided—­”

The effort had proved too much for his strength.  He fell back upon the pillows, and the doctor, stepping forward, saw that it was a question only of minutes.

The good old pastor rose, and took the poor fellow’s hand in his, and pressed it.  “We shall meet again,” he gently said.

The sick man turned towards him with a consoled and grateful look.

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” he feebly murmured.  “Remind me about that dog.”

Then he passed peacefully away, with a sweet smile upon his pale lips.

Brown, who had had his dog story and was satisfied, wanted us to settle our heroine; but the rest of us did not feel equal to settling anybody just then.  We were thinking of all the true dog stories we had ever heard, and wondering which was the one least likely to be generally disbelieved.

MacShaughnassy, in particular, was growing every moment more restless and moody.  Brown concluded a long discourse—­to which nobody had listened—­by remarking with some pride, “What more can you want?  The plot has never been used before, and the characters are entirely original!”

Then MacShaughnassy gave way.  “Talking of plots,” he said, hitching his chair a little nearer the table, “that puts me in mind.  Did I ever tell you about that dog we had when we lived in Norwood?”

“It’s not that one about the bull-dog, is it?” queried Jephson anxiously.

“Well, it was a bull-dog,” admitted MacShaughnassy, “but I don’t think I’ve ever told it you before.”

We knew, by experience, that to argue the matter would only prolong the torture, so we let him go on.

“A great many burglaries had lately taken place in our neighbourhood,” he began, “and the pater came to the conclusion that it was time he laid down a dog.  He thought a bull-dog would be the best for his purpose, and he purchased the most savage and murderous-looking specimen that he could find.

“My mother was alarmed when she saw the dog.  ’Surely you’re not going to let that brute loose about the house!’ she exclaimed.  ’He’ll kill somebody.  I can see it in his face.’

“‘I want him to kill somebody,’ replied my father; ’I want him to kill burglars.’

“‘I don’t like to hear you talk like that, Thomas,’ answered the mater; ’it’s not like you.  We’ve a right to protect our property, but we’ve no right to take a fellow human creature’s life.’