Judas! I never knew Henry to give anybody anything afore--unless 'twas
the smallpox, and then 'twan't a genuine case, nothin' but varioloid."

"But what kind of a dog is it?"

"I don't know. Henry used to own the mother of it, and she was one
quarter mastiff and the rest assorted varieties. This one he's givin'
me ain't a whole dog, you see; just a half-grown pup. The varioloid
all over again--hey? Ho, ho! I didn't really take him for sartin, you
understand; just on trial. If we like him, we'll keep him, that's all."

The third afternoon following this announcement, Brown was alone in
the kitchen, and busy. Seth had departed on one of his mysterious
excursions, carrying a coil of rope, a pulley and a gallon can of paint.
Before leaving the house he had given his helper some instructions
concerning supper.

"Might's well have a lobster tonight," he said. "Ever cook a lobster,
did you?"

No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster.

"Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him in
hot water till he's done."

"I see." The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he did
not love.

"Humph!" he grunted. "I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in
hot water, not cold."