“Stop this instant, sir,--stop; I shoot you! You are dead,--down!” Waife adjusted his staff to his shoulder gun-wise; and at the word of command, “Down,” Mop was on his side, stiff and lifeless. “Still,” said Waife, “a name connected with profound calculation would be the most appropriate; for instance, Sir Isaac--” Before the Comedian could get out the word Newton, Mop had sprung to his four feet, and, with wagging tail and wriggling back, evinced a sense of beatified recognition. “Astounding!” said Waife, rather awed. “Can it be the name? Impossible. Sir Isaac, Sir Isaac!” “Bow-wow!” answered Mop, joyously. “If there be any truth in the doctrine of metempsychosis,” faltered Gentleman Waife, “if the great Newton could have transmigrated into that incomparable animal! Newton, Newton!” To that name Mop made no obeisance, but, evidently still restless, walked round the room, smelling at every corner, and turning to look back with inquisitive earnestness at his new master. “He does not seem to catch at the name of Newton,” said Waife, trying it thrice again, and vainly, “and yet he seems extremely well versed in the principle of gravity. Sir Isaac!” The dog bounded towards him, put his paws on his shoulder, and licked his face. “Just cut out those figures carefully, my dear, and see if we can get him to tell us how much twice ten are--I mean by addressing him as Sir Isaac.” Sophy cut the figures from the multiplication table, and arranged them, at Waife’s instruction, in a circle on the floor. “Now, Sir Isaac.” Mop lifted a paw, and walked deliberately round the letters. “Now, Sir Isaac, how much are ten times two?” Mop deliberately made his survey and calculation, and, pausing at twenty, stooped, and took the letters in his mouth. “It is not natural,” cried Sophy, much alarmed. “It must be wicked, and I’d rather have nothing to do with it, please.”