Once he munched, relishfully, a two-pound box of starch, box and
all; on his recovery, he began upon a second box, and was unhappy
when it was taken from him.

He would greet members of the family with falsetto-thunderous
barks of challenge as they came down the drive from the highway.
But he would frisk out in joyous welcome to meet and fawn upon
tramps or peddlers who sought to invade The Place. He could
scarce learn his own name. He could hardly be taught to obey the
simplest command. As for shaking hands or lying down at order
(those two earliest bits of any dog's education), they meant no
more to Bruce than did the theory of quadratic equations.

At three months he launched forth merrily as a chicken-killer;
gleefully running down and beheading The Place's biggest
Orpington rooster. But his first kill was his last. The Master
saw to that.

There is no use in thrashing a dog for killing poultry. There is
but one practically sure cure for the habit. And this one cure
the Master applied.

He tied the slain rooster firmly around Bruce's furry throat, and
made the puppy wear it, as a heavy and increasingly malodorous
pendant, for three warm days and nights.

Before the end of this seventy-two-hour period, Bruce had grown
to loathe the sight and scent of chicken. Stupid as he was, he
learned this lesson with absolute thoroughness,--as will almost
any chicken-killing pup,--and it seemed to be the only teaching