“Dem dogs is eatin' dere haids off,” he began, fidgeting about the table, brushing the crumbs on to a tray only to spill half of them on the floor--“an' Mister Floyd's coachman done say dat his young marster's jes' a-dyin' for 'em an' don't cyar what he pay for 'em, dat is if ye--” but St. George cut him short.
“Why dat young marster dat's jes' come up f'om Ann'rundel--got mo' money den he kin th'ow 'way I yere.”
“And they are eating their heads off, are they?--and he wants to swap his dirty money for my--Yes--I know. They think they can buy anything with a banknote. And its Floe and Dandy and Sue and Rupert, is it? And I'm to sell them--I who have slept with them and ate with them and hugged them a thousand times. Of course they eat their heads off. Yes--don't say another word. Send them up one at a time--Floe first!”
The scene that followed always lingered in his mind. For days thereafter he could not mention their name, even to Todd, without the tears springing to his eyes.
Up the kitchen flight they tumbled--not one at a time, but all in a scramble, bounding straight at him, slobbering all over his face and hands, their paws scraping his clothes--each trying to climb into his lap--big Gordon setters, all four. He swept them off and ranged them in a row before his arm-chair with their noses flat to the carpet, their brown agate eyes following his every movement.
“Todd says you eat too much, you damned rascals!” he cried in enforced gayety, leaning forward, shaking his finger in their faces. “What the devil do you mean, coming into a gentleman's private apartments and eating him out of house and home!--and that's what you're doing. I'm going to sell you!--do you hear that?--sell you to some stingy curmudgeon who'll starve you to death, and that's what you deserve!... Come here, Floe--you dear old doggie, you--nice Floe!... Here, Dandy--Rupert--Sue!” They were all in his arms, their cold noses snuggled under his warm chin. But this time he didn't care what they did to his clothes--nor what he did to them. He was alone; Todd had gone down to the kitchen--only he and the four companions so dear to his heart. “Come here, you imp of the devil,” he continued, rubbing Floe's ears--he loved her best--pinching her nose until her teeth showed; patting her flanks, crooning over her as a woman would over a child, talking to himself all the time. “I wonder if Floyd will be good to them! If I thought he wouldn't I'd rather starve than--No--I reckon it's all right--he's got plenty of room and plenty of people to look after them.” Then he rose from his chair and drew his hand across his forehead. “Got to sell my dogs, eh? Turned traitor, have you, Mr. Temple, and gone back on your best friends? By God! I wonder what will come next?” He strode across the room, rang for Todd, and bending down loosened a collar from Dandy's neck, on which his own name was engraved, “St. George Wilmot Temple, Esquire.” “Esquire, eh?” he muttered, reading the plate. “What a damned lie! Property of a pauper living on pawnshops and a bill collector! Nice piece of business, St. George--fine record for your blood and breeding! Ah, Todd--that you? Well, take them downstairs and send word to Mr. Floyd's man to call for them to-night, and when you come back I'll have a letter ready for you. Come here, you rascals, and let me hug one or two of you. Good Floe--good doggie.” Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him. “Take them away, Todd,” he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.
