Since Frank was not in the market I was obliged to content myself
with the next best thing, one of his alleged progeny. That is, a son
of his wife. This probable offspring of an illustrious sire was a
roly-poly ball of black fur that looked more like a long-tailed
bearcub than a puppy. But he had some tan markings like those on
Frank's coat, that were, I hoped, guarantees of future greatness, and
also a very characteristic ring of white that he always wore on his
muzzle.

Having got possession of his person, the next thing was to find him
a name. Surely this puzzle was already solved. The rhyme of the
'Franckelyn's dogge' was in-built with the foundation of our
acquaintance, so with adequate pomp we yclept him little Bingo.'

II

The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our shanty, living the life of
a blubbery, fat, well-meaning, ill-doing puppy; gorging himself
with food and growing bigger and clumsier each day. Even sad
experience failed to teach him that he must keep his nose out of
the rat trap. His most friendly overtures to the cat were wholly
misunderstood and resulted only in an armed neutrality that varied
by occasional reigns of terror, continued to the end; which came
when Bingo, who early showed a mind of his own, got a notion for
sleeping at the barn and avoiding the shanty altogether.

When the spring came I set about his serious education. After
much pains on my behalf and many pains on his, he learned to go
at the word in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at will on