s along the bank. While, one
sultry noon, the fun in the bathing pool was at its height, Joker routed
an otter from a hiding place near which the bathers were swimming with
the current, and a terrific fight took place in the shallows before the
_dwrgu_ made good his escape. The dog was found to have been severely
worsted in the fray, and was taken home to be nursed till his wounds
were healed. Meanwhile, Joker's fame as an otter-hound was firmly
established in the village, and he was regarded as a hero.

The little dog, Bob, lived at the inn, and for years his droll ways
endeared him to every villager, as well as to every angler who came to
"the house" for salmon-fishing. He loved nothing better than a
friendship with some unsuspecting fisherman whom he might afterwards use
to further his own ends. The sight of a rod placed by the door in the
early morning was sufficient promise of a day's continuous enjoyment;
the terrier assumed possession of the rod at once, and kept all other
curs at a distance. On the appearance of the sportsman, he manifested
such unmistakable delight, and pleaded so hard for permission to
follow, that, unless the sportsman happened to be one whose experiences
led him to dislike the presence of a fussy dog by the riverside, the
flattery rarely failed of its object. Once past the rustic swing-bridge
at the lower boundary of the waters belonging to the inn, Bob left the
sportsman to his own devices, and stole off into the woods to hunt
rabbits. Unfailingly, however, he rejoined his friend at lunch.

On Sundays, knowing that the report of a gun was not likely then to
resound among the woods, and depressed by the quietness and disappointed
by the nervous manner with which everybody well dressed for church
resented his familiarities, he lingered about the street corners--as the
unemployed usually do, even in our village--till the delicious smells of
Sunday dinners pervaded the street. The savoury odours in no way
sharpened his appetite, for at the inn his fare was always of the best;
but they indicated that the time was approaching when the watchmaker and
the lawyer set out together for their long weekly ramble through the
woods. Bob knew what such a ramble meant for him. The watchmaker's dog,
Tip, was Bob's respected sire, and Tip's brother, Charlie, dwelt at a
house in "The Square." Bob, scenting the Sunday dinners, went at once to
call for Charlie, and in his company adjourned to the lane behind the