Immediately upon
his heels followed the first instalment of Dad Petto's mongrel,
enveloped in dust, his jaws distended, the lower one shaving the
ground to scoop up the rabbit. He was going at a rather lively gait,
but was some time in passing. My friend stood a few moments looking
on; then rubbed his eyes, looked again, and finally turned to me, just
as the brute's tail flitted by, saying, with a broad stare of
astonishment:
"Did you ever see a pack of hounds run so perfectly in line? It beats
anything! And the speed, too--they seem fairly blended! If a fellow
didn't know better, he would swear there was but a single dog!"
I suppose it was this peculiarity of Jerusalem that had won old
Petto's regard. He liked as much of anything as he could have for his
money; and the expense of this creature, generally speaking, was no
greater than that of a brief succinct bull pup. But there were times
when he was costly. All dogs are sometimes "off their feed"--will eat
nothing for a whole day but a few ox-tails, a pudding or two, and such
towelling as they can pick up in the scullery. When Jerusalem got that
way, which, to do him justice, was singularly seldom, it made things
awkward in the near future. For in a few days after recovering his
passion for food, the effect of his former abstemiousness would begin
to reach his stomach; but of course all he could _then_ devour would
work no immediate relief.
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