He was. It was for a dog, any dog, but preferably a very fierce bloodhound. He had already bought a chain; he had to have that because the dog he was going to buy would have to be held in by main force; it would have to be restrained. But he didn't have to buy one after all; he had one transferred to him. You see Jimmy was helping at a kind of bazaar in aid of the Belgian Refugees Fund. He had volunteered to help with the refreshment stall. There is a lot of work about a refreshment stall, Jimmy says. His work made him a bit husky, but he stuck to it and so it stuck to him. He was very busy explaining the works of a cake to a lady when a man came up with something under his arm. It was a raffle. You paid threepence for a ticket, and would the lady like one? The lady said she already had two tea-cosies at home; but the man explained that it was not a tea-cosy, it was a dog. A dog! Perhaps a bloodhound! Jimmy trembled with excitement. Only threepence for a ticket, and he had a chance of winning it. It seemed a faithful dog, Jimmy thought. It had a very good lick, too; it licked a sponge-cake off a plate, and would have licked quite a lot more from Jimmy's stall if it had had time. Jimmy came third in the raffle. But the man whose ticket won the dog said he didn't care for that kind of breed, by the look of it, and gave way in favour of the next. The next man said he wasn't taking any shooting this year, and he stood aside. The dog was Jimmy's!! With trembling hands he fastened on the chain--to restrain it. Then he asked the man whose ticket had won the raffle if it was really a _prize_ bloodhound. The man looked at the dog critically, and said it was either a prize bloodhound or a Scotch haggis; at any rate it was a very rare animal. Jimmy asked if he would have to have a licence for it, but the man said it would be best to wait and see what it grew into. All good bloodhounds are like that, Jimmy says. Jimmy ran all the way home: he couldn't run very fast, as the bloodhound tried to slide on its hind legs most of the way, it was so fierce. Jimmy knows all about bloodhounds, how to train them. He is training his to track down German spies, amongst other things. He knows a way so that if you say something--well, you don't exactly say it, you do it by putting your tongue into the place where your front tooth came out and then blowing--a really well-trained bloodhound will begin to shiver, and the hair on the back of his neck will go up. You then go and look for someone to help you to pull him off the German's throat, and ask the German his name and address, politely. Jimmy taught his bloodhound to track clothes by letting it smell at a piece of cloth. It brought him a lot of clothes from nearly a quarter of a mile away. They were not the light clothes though, and Jimmy had to take them back. The woman wanted them--to wash over again, she said. She doesn't like bloodhounds much.