Deep in the bearskin rug in front of the fire (a trophy of one of the
rifles that filled a glass-fronted case over the mantel-shelf) lay the
two little fox-terriers, Rinka and Tashpy, in moody and determined
repose. For a brief period of suffering they had attempted to cleave
to Christian; but as the throng grew, and the time for tea lingered,
they had, in high offence, betaken themselves to their ultimate
citadel, the library.

"I suppose it was her pup I was raffling awhile ago," remarked Dr.
Mangan, presently, as Rinka languidly rose, and having stretched
herself, and yawned, musically and meretriciously, put her nose on his
broad knee, deliberating as to whether the distinction of a human lap
outweighed the lowly comfort of the bearskin.

"Doggie! Poor doggie! Down, now, down!" Dr. Mangan had no idea how to
talk to dogs, and he did not wish Rinka to sit on his best grey
trousers.

"Hit her a smack!" said Major Dick; "don't let her bother you.
Christian has spoilt these dogs till they're perfect nuisances! Yes,
it's her pup. Who won it? It ought to be a clinker; it was the best of
the lot--"

"I d'no did they draw for it yet. I took three tickets for it myself,"
said the Doctor. "I want it for a sort of a cousin of me own--a very
sporting chap that's coming to Cluhir; he asked me could I get him a
dog."

"What's he going to do in Cluhir?" asked Dick, carelessly.