Why, bless you, he wouldn't hurt a worm! He ain't got a tooth in his
head, he ain't; we has to feed him with a spoon; and I'm sure the way
the cat chivies him about must be enough to make his life a burden to
him. I expect he wanted you to nurse him; he's used to being nursed."

And that was the brute that had kept us sitting on a table, with our
boots off, for over an hour on a chilly night!

Another bull-dog exhibition that occurs to me was one given by my
uncle. He had had a bulldog--a young one--given to him by a friend.
It was a grand dog, so his friend had told him; all it wanted was
training--it had not been properly trained. My uncle did not profess
to know much about the training of bull-dogs; but it seemed a simple
enough matter, so he thanked the man, and took his prize home at the
end of a rope.

"Have we got to live in the house with _this?_" asked my aunt,
indignantly, coming in to the room about an hour after the dog's
advent, followed by the quadruped himself, wearing an idiotically
self-satisfied air.

"That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid
dog. His father was honorably mentioned only last year at the
Aquarium."

"Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the way to get
honorably mentioned in this neighborhood," replied my aunt, with
bitterness; "he's just finished killing poor Mrs. McSlanger's cat, if
you want to know what he has been doing. And a pretty row there'll be
about it, too!"