The great friend and playmate of Bruin, was Pincher a very accomplished, smooth terrier, capital dog to go with the hounds, and to kill all sorts of obnoxious animals. If the two appeared to be asleep, and we exclaimed "Cat!" or "Rat!" in one instant they were on their legs, seeking in every direction for their game. They hunted on their own account sometimes, and were often seen with a red spaniel, trotting through the fields, no doubt conspiring together to have a feast. Both Bruin and Pincher were perfectly aware when Sunday came round; and although on other days, when they saw us equipped for a walk, they were most vociferous in their entreaties to go also, on Sunday they hid themselves under the sofa, and never offered to accompany us. They knew where we went, and generally came to meet us on our return, sometimes venturing as far as the gate of the churchyard, which was a mile distant, but never went within the enclosure. One of my brothers, who was more peculiarly Pincher's master, had a great fancy to be a doctor as he called it; and he chipped various flint stones into fancied instruments. With these he pretended to perform operations on Pincher, who would lie perfectly passive under his hands, to have his teeth drawn, his limbs set, his wounds bandaged, his veins opened. The grand finale used to be an entire cutting up, which the boy copied from the same process practised on pigs. The dog was laid upon a table, with his legs stuck out which he made as stiff as possible. His head was then cut off, and as soon as the flint was passed across his throat, the head fell on one side, and it might have been thought that the dog fancied it was really off, so entirely did he let it lie without motion. The flint was then passed round his legs, each of which fell down without further movement, as close to the body as he could pull them. At last, when all was ended, my brother said, "Jump up, good dog!" and Pincher bounding off the table shook himself to life again.