The poor thing had quite understood what was being done for it, and had been the most grateful patient they had ever had in the hospital.  The whole staff were quite sorry when it left.

One morning, a week or two later, the house-surgeon, looking out of the window, saw the dog coming down the street.  When it came near he noticed that it had a penny in its mouth.  A cat’s-meat barrow was standing by the kerb, and for a moment, as he passed it, the dog hesitated.

But his nobler nature asserted itself, and, walking straight up to the hospital railings, and raising himself upon his hind legs, he dropped his penny into the contribution box.

MacShaughnassy was much affected by this story.  He said it showed such a beautiful trait in the dog’s character.  The animal was a poor outcast, vagrant thing, that had perhaps never possessed a penny before in all its life, and might never have another.  He said that dog’s penny seemed to him to be a greater gift than the biggest cheque that the wealthiest patron ever signed.

The other three were very eager now to get to work on the novel, but I did not quite see the fairness of this.  I had one or two dog stories of my own.

I knew a black-and-tan terrier years ago.  He lodged in the same house with me.  He did not belong to any one.  He had discharged his owner (if, indeed, he had ever permitted himself to possess one, which is doubtful, having regard to his aggressively independent character), and was now running himself entirely on his own account.  He appropriated the front hall for his sleeping-apartment, and took his meals with the other lodgers—­whenever they happened to be having meals.

At five o’clock he would take an early morning snack with young Hollis, an engineer’s pupil, who had to get up at half-past four and make his own coffee, so as to be down at the works by six.  At eight-thirty he would breakfast in a more sensible fashion with Mr. Blair, on the first floor, and on occasions would join Jack Gadbut, who was a late riser, in a devilled kidney at eleven.

From then till about five, when I generally had a cup of tea and a chop, he regularly disappeared.  Where he went and what he did between those hours nobody ever knew.  Gadbut swore that twice he had met him coming out of a stockbroker’s office in Threadneedle Street, and, improbable though the statement at first appeared, some colour of credibility began to attach to it when we reflected upon the dog’s inordinate passion for acquiring and hoarding coppers.

This craving of his for wealth was really quite remarkable.  He was an elderly dog, with a great sense of his own dignity; yet, on the promise of a penny, I have seen him run round after his own tail until he didn’t know one end of himself from the other.

He used to teach himself tricks, and go from room to room in the evening, performing them, and when he had completed his programme he would sit up and beg.  All the fellows used to humour him.  He must have made pounds in the course of the year.