the prospect of a walk, remarked that when the new taxes came in I should
have to pay a guinea for the privilege of keeping that dog. I said I hoped
that Mr. McKenna would do nothing so foolish. In fact, I said, I am sure he
will do nothing so foolish. I know him well, and I have always found him a
sensible man. Let him, said I, tax us all fairly according to our incomes,
but why should he interfere with the way in which we spend the money that
he leaves us? Why should he deny the friendship of that most friendly
animal the dog to a poor man and make it the exclusive possession of the
well-to-do?

The emotion of Quilp's tail kept pace with the fervour of my remarks. He
knew that he was the subject of the conversation, and his large brown eyes
gleamed with intelligence, and his expressive eyebrows were eloquent of
self-pity and appeal. He was satisfied that whatever the issue I was on his
side, and at half a hint he would have given my friend a taste of the rough
side of his tongue. But he is a well-mannered brute, and knows how to
restrain his feelings in company.

What would be the result of your high tax? I continued with passion. It
would be a blow at the democracy of dogs. It would reduce the whole of
dogdom to a pampered class of degenerates. Is there anything more odious
than the spectacle of a fat woman in furs nursing a lap dog in furs, too?
It is as degrading to the noble family of dogs as a footman in gold buttons
and gold braid is to the human family. But it is just these degenerates
whom a high tax would protect. Honest fellows like Quilp here (more
triumphant tail flourishes), dogs that love you like a brother, that will
run for you, carry for you, bark for you, whose candour is so transparent
and whose faithfulness has been the theme of countless poets--dogs like
these would be taxed out of existence.