IN BOOKS AND REAL LIFE 199 



out very differently. One is naturally morose, 

 quick to take offence, and inclined to sulk ; put 

 him out of temper, and it may be days before he 

 will forgive or forget. Kindness and patience are 

 wasted on his sullen nature, and the sooner you get 

 rid of him the better. So perhaps it might be wise 

 to do with another, whose fiery spirit keeps you in 

 continual hot water, and yet you cannot help liking 

 him. A born fighter, he is always picking quarrels ; 

 on slight provocation he will go at any dog, regard- 

 less of size or strength. He is what the keepers call 

 "varmint," — game to the backbone, and as his fail- 

 ings are on the side of virtues, you love him for 

 his pluck. I had one of the kind who had a 

 difficulty with a bull-terrier on chain, twice his own 

 weight. He could have cried off at any moment of 

 the fight, but for a summer afternoon he went at 

 the big one, time after time, retiring beyond reach 

 to breathe between rounds. The stupid stableman 

 who was looking on never interfered, and when 

 I drove home that night — I had been away for the 

 day — I heard that my little pet had at last been 

 brought home dying, so bad that it was not thought 

 worth while to send for a doctor. A pitiable sight 

 he was, bleeding, tattered, and torn, stretched on 

 the rug, with scarcely a wink or a breath left in 

 him. I washed his wounds, bound up a thigh that 

 had been bitten through, and was cheered to see 

 him open one eye, when I bathed his muzzle with 

 brandy and poured some drops down his throat. 

 Rather than watch through the night by the patient's 



