“Of course not. I shant bring your name in. But who would have thought it? However, I am glad of it on the whole. That dog was the perfect horror of the whole village with his yowling and yelling. I declare, on the whole, I’m rejoiced at it. We’ll have some peace nights and stand a chance of sleeping some. I vow to you, the other moonlight night he made such a noise I couldn’t close my eyes. I got up and opened the window, and what should I see (you know it was as bright as day) but that infernal creature, planted on his four legs with his tail as stiff as a mackerel, yowling at the moon, as if he was in the last stages of the hydrophobia. I was so mad that I took one of my old boots, and may I be hanged, if I didn’t hit him slap, right on his head. He had just opened his great mouth for another yowl, but it changed to a yell double quick time, I tell you, and the way he streaked it round the corner was nothing to nobody. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I’m glad he’s dead, any way.” “He! he! he! so am I. Well, good morning.” Opposite walks he, straight as a bee-line, to Nate’s store. “Well, Nate, how are you?” “Pretty well, how is it with yourself?” “So as to be stirring, though I’m sleepy as the deuce. Have you heard the news this morning, Nate?” “News, no! (Nate is as keen after news as after money, and that is saying all that can be said on the subject.) What news? Do tell me, Squire?” “Well, I mean to tell you. You know John P.’s big dog, don’t you?” “Yes. I hear him often enough nights to know him. What of it?” “He’s been shot.” “Good! First rate. But who shot him?” “Old cheese, your brother-in-law up at the tavern there.” “What, Hamble! You don’t say so!” “But I do say so. And I say further, (but this you mustn’t repeat for the world, Nate, that is, with me as your authority—now you wont, will you?)” “No, no, no, I tell you. What was you going to say further?” “Why, I was going to say further, (and of course you wont repeat it as you’ve promised not,) that Claypole told me so.” “Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though, anyhow.” Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him, stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern. “I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at the bar yet, eh!” “Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.” “So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?” “News! no. What news, Squire?” “Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!” “Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!” “No. _I_ don’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says who shot him.” “_The deuce_ he does. Who was it?” “I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.” “I promise of course. Now, who was it?” “Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.” “BILL CLAYPOLE! Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into a heap!”