I never cared for him. He fawned on the Morrises,
and pretended he loved them, and afterward turned around and laughed and
sneered at them in a way that made me very angry. I used to lecture him
sometimes, and growl about him to Jim, but Jim always said, "Let him
alone. You can't do him any good. He was born bad. His mother wasn't
good. He tells me that she had a bad name among all the dogs in her
neighborhood. She was a thief and a runaway." Though he provoked me so
often, yet I could not help laughing at some of his stories, they were
so funny.
We were lying out in the sun, on the platform at the back of the house,
one day, and he had been more than usually provoking, so I got up to
leave him. He put himself in my way, however, and said, coaxingly,
"Don't be cross, old fellow. I'll tell you some stories to amuse you,
old boy. What shall they be about?"
"I think the story of your life would be about as interesting as
anything you could make up," I said, dryly.
"All right, fact or fiction, whichever you like. Here's a fact, plain
and unvarnished. Born and bred in New York. Swell stable. Swell
coachman.
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