He had one staunch, unfaltering little friend among the dogs of the neighbourhood. This was an unimportant nondescript little fox-terrier, the property of the hairdresser at the bottom of Orange Street. His name was Bobby. There was nothing at all to distinguish Bobby from all the dogs in the world—he was one of those ill-bred, colourless fox-terriers who are known to their masters only by sterling character. He had suffered every sort of indignity in his time: stones had been thrown at him, kettles had been tied to his tail, cats had scratched his eyes, his master (who often drank too much) kicked and abused him; but he had an indomitable spirit, an essential gaiety of heart that no troubles could quench. He was not admitted into the hierarchy of Orange Street dogs—even Flossie did not permit herself to be aware of his existence—but he hung about always in a good humour, always ready to do anyone a good turn, and often just rolling over and over in the road at the sheer joy of life. At the first glimpse of Hamlet he had lost his heart to him. Hamlet had not been so kind to him as he should have been, but he had not rebuffed him as the other dogs had done, and had gone with him once all the way down to the hairdresser’s to see the hairdresser’s baby, of whose strength and appearance Bobby was inordinately proud. Now, in these days of Hamlet’s trouble Bobby showed the true mettle of his pasture. He longed that Pompey might speak to him so that he might show him what he thought of him. “You mustn’t let this worry you too much,” he said to Hamlet. “I’ve been through far worse things than this. It simply shows that Pompey, in spite of his high breeding, is worth nothing at all.” “I’m going to fight Mephisto,” said Hamlet. Bobby’s eyes opened wide at that and he looked up from the old and very dirty bone that he was investigating. “Fight Mephisto!” he repeated. “That’s a tall order.” “Never mind,” said Hamlet firmly. “It’s got to be done, and you’ve got to help me.” III When Fate intends something to occur she very quickly provides the opportunity. The opportunity in this instance was Bobby. His was a most sociable soul. We all know dogs whose whole interest in life is social; they are not as a rule very popular with their masters, it being said of them that they care for one as much as another, and will leap with friendly gestures upon the hostile burglar as eagerly as they will upon the most important person in the household. Bobby was not that kind of dog; he really did care for his hairdresser and his hairdresser’s wife and baby and for Hamlet more than any other humans or any other dog in the world. But he was miserable when he was alone; he must have company. His only family was a very busy and preoccupied one, and he did not wish to bore Hamlet with too much of his own society.