'No, mother,' exclaimed Waldemar eagerly. 'You side with me, don't you?
A dog of eight is not an old dog.'

And in an instant the whole family was divided into two parties--two
very ardent parties, who, with an unceasing flow of words, set to
debating the momentous question:--whether one can call a dog of eight
years an old dog or not. Both sides became warm, and, although each one
kept on repeating his unalterable opinion into his opponent's face, it
did not seem likely that they would ever arrive at unanimity--not even
when old grandmother hurriedly rose from her chair, and positively
insisted upon telling some story about the Queen-Dowager's lap-dog,
which she had had the honour of knowing from the street.

But in the midst of the irresistible whirl of words there came a pause.
Some one looked at his watch and said: 'The steamboat.' They all rose;
the gentlemen, who had to go to town, rushed off; the whole company was
scattered to the four winds, and the problem--whether one can call a dog
of eight an old dog or not--floated away in the air, unsolved.

Trofast alone did not stir. He was accustomed to this domestic din, and
these unsolved problems did not interest him. He ran his wise eyes over
the deserted breakfast-table, dropped his black nose upon his powerful
fore-paws, and closed his eyes for a little morning nap. As long as they
were staying out in the country, there was nothing much for him to do,
except eat and sleep.

Trofast was one of the pure Danish hounds from the Zoological Gardens.
The King had even bought his brother, which fact was expressly
communicated to all who came to the house.