love my dog.'

One of our neighbors had a very fine hound that he thought the
best and dearest dog in the world. I loved him, so I loved his dog,
and when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly mangled and
died by the door, I joined my threats of vengeance with those of
his master and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing the
miscreant, both by offering rewards and by collecting scraps of
evidence. At length it was clear that one of three men to the
southward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The scent was
warming up, and soon we should have been in a position to exact
rigorous justice, at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor
old Tan.

Then something took place which at once changed my mind and
led me to believe that the mangling of the old hound was not by
any means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on second thoughts
was rather commendable than otherwise.

Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, and while there one
day, Gordon Jr., knowing that I was tracking the murderer, took
me aside and looking about furtively, he whispered, in tragic tones:

"It was Bing done it."

And the matter dropped right there. For I confess that from that
moment I did all in my power to baffle the justice I had previously
striven so hard to further. I had given Bingo away long before, but
the feeling of ownership did not die; and of this indissoluble
fellowship of dog and man he was soon to take part in another