"Let's go and see the pups, Alf," said Oscar, after they had got done
laughing over the joke they had played upon Andy.

Alfred's step-father had a fine dog of the hound species, with a litter
of cunning little pups. A bed had been made for her and the little
ones in a corner of the yard, adjoining the stable, with a rough
covering to shelter them from wind and storms. The pups were now
several weeks old. There were five of them, and a fat and frolicksome
set they were too. As the boys approached them, they were frisking and
capering as usual; tumbling and rolling over one another, climbing upon
the back of their mother, and pulling and barking at the straw. Their
mother, whose name was Bright, sat watching their gambols with a very
affectionate but sedate look. Perhaps she was wondering whether _she_
was ever so mischievous and frisky as these little fellows were. When
the pups looked up and saw the boys, they stopped their fun for a time,
for they were not yet much accustomed to company. Bright, however,
knew both Alfred and Oscar; and as she was a dog of good education and
accomplished manners, she did not allow herself to be disconcerted in
the least by their presence.

"You did n't know father had given all the pups but one to me, did you,
Oscar?" inquired Alfred.

"No,--has he, though?" asked Oscar.

"Yes, he has. I knew I could make him say yes, and so I teased him
till he did. He 's going to pick out one, to keep, and I 'm to have
all the rest."

"That's first-rate," said Oscar; "and you 'll give me one, won't you?"