“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t at the station when Jane—when you got in, Uncle Herbert. Did you have a comfortable trip down from—” “Nine,” counted Mr. Sage, and then fifteen seconds later: “Ten. Now, what shall I do with him, Oliver? If I let him down he’ll jump at me like a rattlesnake and—” “Oh, no, he won’t,” said Oliver, reluctantly withdrawing his gaze from the window and joining the other beyond the corner of the woodshed. “He’ll lick your hand if you hold it close enough to his nose. Let him down. See that? He’s got his tail between his legs—or as much of it as he can get there—and he’ll keep it there till he thinks you want him to wag it.” “I feel like a brute,” muttered Mr. Sage, but not as contritely as might have been expected. “I hope I haven’t really injured the poor little fellow.” Henry the Eighth, cringing flat on his little belly, peeped anxiously but evilly up at his new master. “He doesn’t appear to be able to stand on his feet, Oliver.” “Does he know any tricks?” “Oh my, yes. He’s really quite clever. He does quite a few for Josephine. Rolls over, plays dead, jumps over her foot, sits up and begs, and—” “Tell him to roll over,” said Oliver sternly. “Oh, he won’t do them for me. He growls at me whenever I attempt to—” “Tell him to roll over.” “Roll over, Henry—roll over, sir! Why—why, bless my soul, he’s doing it.” “Tell him to play dead.” Henry the Eighth “played dead”—with his beady eyes wide open, however—and then sat up on his haunches and begged. “Now, see what he’ll do if you try to pat his head.” “Oh, I wouldn’t like to risk—er—he is quite likely to nip my fingers if I—” “If he tries it, spank him once or twice.” Henry the Eighth plucked up the courage to growl when the minister’s left hand neared his head. An instant later, the flat of Mr. Sage’s right hand came in contact with a portion of Henry’s anatomy that already had suffered considerable pain and indignity. Whereupon he squeezed out an apologetic little yelp and turned over on his back to play dead again. Mr. Sage solemnly shook both of the feathery front paws and called him a nice doggie. He had to call him a nice doggie three times, and, besides that, had to show his teeth in a broad, ingratiating smile before Henry was willing to trust his own eyes and ears. He wagged his bushy tail weakly, experimentally. “Nice doggie,” said Mr. Sage again. “Don’t overdo it,” warned Oliver. “Don’t be too polite to him. He’ll be thinking he’s a lion again, Uncle Herbert.” “I wouldn’t have Mrs. Sage know that I’ve thrashed him for anything in the world,” said the minister guiltily. “You won’t mention it, my lad?” “I can’t promise not to tell Jane about it.” “Oh, I don’t mind your telling Jane. She’s been at me for a week to paddle him—” “I say, Uncle Herbert, don’t you think Jane may have finished—er—rubbing Mrs. Sage’s back by this time?” inquired the impatient Oliver.