Oh, oh! thought you--the master of so fine a dog would have collar and chain, too, for him. This fellow must have stolen him--it is my duty (your virtuous duty, indeed) to rescue this fine creature, and perchance save this wretched man from such wicked courses. So thus you proceed--you look indignant, and accost the soldier, "Holloa, you fellow--whose dog's that?" Soldier--"What's that to you?" Eusebius--"What's the name of your captain, that I may instantly appeal to him on the subject?" Soldier alarmed--"I beg your honour's pardon, but the dog followed me. I don't know to whom he belongs." What made you, then, so particularly enquire where he came from, and whereabouts he met with him? Your virtue whispered to you, "Ask these questions, that you may be able to find out the owner." Another imp whispered, "It might be useful." So you seize the rope, lecture the man upon the enormity of his intentions, quietly take the dog to your stable, and walk away with, as you flatter yourself, the heartfelt satisfaction of having saved a fellow-creature from the commission of a theft. To do you justice, you did, I verily believe, for two whole days make decent enquiries, and _endeavour_, if that be not too strong a word--_endeavour_ to find out the owner. But at the close of every day question Rover himself; and questioning Rover led you to look into each other's faces--and so you liked Rover's looks, and Rover liked your looks--and when you said to Rover, I should like to know who your master is? Rover looked with all his eyes, as much as to say, "Well now, if ever I heard the like of that! If my name is Rover, yours must be Bouncer"--then you patted him for a true and truth-telling dog; and he wagged his tail, and looked again at you, till you perfectly mesmerized each other, and understood each other, and he acknowledged that you, and no other, could be his master--and so you mastered him, and he mastered your conscience--and then you and your conscience began to have a parley. I fear you had sent her to a bad boarding-school, and had just brought her home for the holidays, with a pretty many more niceties and distinctions than she took with her--and had come back "more nice than wise." "Have you found the owner?" quoth she. "It is time he were found," replied you. "Why?" quoth she. "Because," you rejoin, "the shooting season is fast approaching." "That is true." "The dog will be spoiled for want of practice." "That will be a pity." "Thank you, conscience--won't it be a sin?" Conscience is silent, so you take that for granted. "Hadn't I better take out a license this year?" "Oh! it wouldn't be right you should go without one." "Certainly not, (somewhat boldly;) I _will_ get my license directly. Poor Rover!--well--how very fond that dog is of me--it would be highly ungrateful not to make a return even to a dog. I ought to be fond of him. I--am--very fond of him." Then you confess, Eusebius, that you should be very sorry to part with him.