Last year Billy thought he had achieved his aim at last. When he
returned from the sea-side he brought with him a powerful dog of unknown
breed and of the most colossal ugliness. He confided to me that he would
not let him out on the street until his education was complete, "and
then," said he, "there will be only one dog in the Ballybun census." I
had my doubts, as I know the local dog, which would have the hide off an
elephant if it barked. But Billy O'Brien is a stranger, or as we say
"transplanter" in our part of Ireland, his grandfather being the first
of his branch to transplant himself here, and he did not then know much
about the higher education of dog, though he is an admirable inspector
of schools.

But he thought he did, and he had an educational theory which was all
his own. He claimed that a dog is what he eats, and he simply spent
pounds on that dog's education. In a month or two Elixir, which was the
dog's name, could swallow curries without winking which would bring
tears to the eyes of an Oriental Potentate, and he would howl if he was
given water without Worcester Sauce.

O'Brien's theory may have been right, or else it was only his dog's
liver that was wrong, for very soon Elixir would keep us up half the
night shouting offensive epithets across our wall at Mulligan's dog, who
hurled them back at him. Mulligan, who is a light sleeper, was much
annoyed, and wrote O'Brien eight pages about it. He mentioned that he
was a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,
and that it was positive cruelty to keep these two animals separated a
moment longer than was absolutely necessary. He said that his
conscientious objections to betting were well known and life-long, but
that even they would not stand in the way of his wife's putting a fiver