“If I only _knew_ who sent that dog,” Murchison used to say to Brownlee, “I would like to make some return. I'd send him a barrel of my best melons, express paid, if it cost me five dollars!” Murchison was in the produce business, and he knew all about melons, but not so much about dogs. Of course he could tell a dog from a cat, and a few things of that sort, but Brownlee was the real dog man. Brownlee had two Irish pointers or setters--I forget which they were; the black dogs with the long, floppy ears. I don't know much about dogs myself. I hate dogs. Brownlee knows a great deal about dogs. He isn't one of the book-taught sort; he knows dogs by instinct. As soon as he sees a dog he can make a guess at its breed, and out our way that is a pretty good test, for Gallatin dogs are rather cosmopolitan. That is what makes good stock in men--Scotch grandmother and German grandfather on one side and English grandmother and Swedish grandfather on the other--and I don't see why the same isn't true of dogs. There are numbers of dogs in Gallatin that can trace their ancestry through nearly every breed of dog that ever lived, and Brownlee can look at any one of them and immediately guess at its formula--one part Spitz, three parts greyhound, two parts collie, and so on. I have heard him guess more kinds of dog than I ever knew existed. As soon as he saw Murchison's dog he guessed it was a pure bred Shepherd with a trace of Eskimo. Massett, who thinks he knows as much about dogs as Brownlee does, didn't believe it. The moment he saw the pup he said it was a pedigree dog, half St. Bernard and half Spitz. Brownlee and Massett used to sit on Murchison's steps after supper and point out the proofs to each other. They would argue for hours. “All right, Massett,” Brownlee would say, “but you can't fool _me_. I Look at that nose! If that isn't a Shepherd nose, I'll eat it. And see that tail! Did you ever see a tail like that on a Spitz? That is an Eskimo tail as sure as I am a foot high.” “Tail fiddlesticks!” Massett would reply. “You can't tell anything by a pup's tail. Look at his ears! _There_ is St. Bernard for you! And see his lower jaw. Isn't that Spitz? I'll leave it to Murchison. Isn't that lower jaw Spitz, Murchison?” Then all three would tackle the puppy and open its mouth and feel its jaw, and the pup would wriggle and squeak, and back away, opening and shutting its mouth to see if its works had been damaged. “All right!” Brownlee would say. “You wait a year or two and you'll see!”