want a dog biscuit; if he could not have a grilled kidney he did not
want anything. He had thrown the biscuit on the floor. Smith saw it and
made for it. Now Smith never eats biscuits. I give him one occasionally,
and he at once proceeds to hide it. He is a thrifty dog; he thinks of
the future. "You never know what may happen," he says; "suppose the
Guv'nor dies, or goes mad, or bankrupt, I may be glad even of this
biscuit; I'll put it under the door-mat--no, I won't, somebody will find
it there. I'll scratch a hole in the tennis lawn, and bury it there.
That's a good idea; perhaps it'll grow!" Once I caught him hiding it in
my study, behind the shelf devoted to my own books. It offended me, his
doing that; the argument was so palpable. Generally, wherever he hides
it somebody finds it. We find it under our pillows--inside our boots;
no place seems safe. This time he had said to himself--"By Jove! a whole
row of the Guv'nor's books. Nobody will ever want to take these out;
I'll hide it here." One feels a thing like that from one's own dog.

But The O'Shannon's biscuit was another matter. Honesty is the best
policy; but dishonesty is the better fun. He made a dash for it, and
commenced to devour it greedily; you might have thought he had not
tasted food for a week.

The indignation of The O'Shannon was a sight for the gods. He has the
good-nature of his race: had Smith asked him for the biscuit he would
probably have given it to him; it was the insult--the immorality of the
proceeding, that maddened The O'Shannon.

For a moment he was paralyzed.

"Well, of all the--Did ye see that now?" he said to me with his eyes.
Then he made a rush and snatched the biscuit out of Smith's very jaws.
"Ye onprincipled black Saxon thief," growled The O'Shannon; "how dare ye
take my biscuit?"

"You miserable Irish cur," growled Smith; "how was I to know it was your
biscuit? Does everything on the floor belong to you? Perhaps you think I
belong to you, I'm on the floor. I don't believe it is your biscuit, you
long-eared, snubbed-nosed bog-trotter; give it me back."

"I don't require any of your argument, you flop-eared son of a tramp
with half a tail," replied The O'Shannon. "You come and take it, if you
think you are dog enough."

He did think he was dog enough. He is half the size of The O'Shannon,
but such considerations weigh not with him. His argument is, if a dog is
too big for you to fight the whole of him, take a bit of him a