on their dog Stanislaus. He added a few remarks about O'Brien's
grandfather, the "transplanter"; but what annoyed the owner of Elixir
most was Mulligan's remark that he had not seen the dog, but heard it
was some new kind of German pug.

Billy came in with the libelled animal at his heels to show me
Mulligan's letter and discuss his wrongs, before he went round to talk
dog with the writer. His shortest way to Mulligan's was through my
back-yard. Elixir, without anybody's permission, at once started to
break his way through in order to tell Mulligan's dog to his face what
he thought of him. He had hardly set a paw in it when an infuriated ball
of fur lit somewhere out of space on to his back, cursing and spitting
and tearing the hair out in slathers. This new enemy was my wife's
tortoise-shell kitten Emmeline, whose existence I had for the moment
forgotten, but who owns that backyard and whose permission had not been
asked.

What was left of Elixir let a yell out of it like a foghorn and bolted.
It returned twenty-four hours later with its tail between its legs, a
convinced pacifist. The disgusted O'Brien at once changed its name to
Bertrand Russell, after some philosopher who palliates German methods of
warfare, and gave it to a tinker.

O'Brien has abandoned theories about dogs and is now trying to encourage
hygiene in our midst, and Mulligan is sleeping better than ever.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Diner_ (_choking_). "QUICK! WATER! CRUMB IN ME THROAT."
_War Waiter_. "AH, SIR, IF ONLY THE WELL-TO-DO WOULD LEAVE BREAD FOR THE