possession of a lame dog, but failed. A one-eyed dealer in Seven
Dials, to whom, as a last resource, I applied, offered to lame one
for me for an extra five shillings, but this suggestion I declined.
I came across an uncanny-looking mongrel late one night. He was not
lame, but he seemed pretty sick; and, feeling I was not robbing
anybody of anything very valuable, I lured him home and nursed him.
I fancy I must have over-nursed him. He got so healthy in the end,
there was no doing anything with him. He was an ill-conditioned
cur, and he was too old to be taught. He became the curse of the
neighbourhood. His idea of sport was killing chickens and sneaking
rabbits from outside poulterers' shops. For recreation he killed
cats and frightened small children by yelping round their legs.
There were times when I could have lamed him myself, if only I could
have got hold of him. I made nothing by running that dog--nothing
whatever. People, instead of admiring me for nursing him back to
life, called me a fool, and said that if I didn't drown the brute
they would. He spoilt my character utterly--I mean my character at
this period. It is difficult to pose as a young man with a heart of
gold, when discovered in the middle of the road throwing stones at
your own dog. And stones were the only things that would reach and
influence him.

I was also hampered by a scarcity in runaway horses. The horse of
our suburb was not that type of horse. Once and only once did an
opportunity offer itself for practice. It was a good opportunity,
inasmuch as he was not running away very greatly. Indeed, I doubt
if he knew himself that he was running away. It transpired
afterwards that it was a habit of his, after waiting for his driver
outside the Rose and Crown for what he considered to be a reasonable
period, to trot home on his own account. He passed me going about