reme happiness of hunting there throughout
their lives. Some were good, and others, well--not so good. Others were
not thought much to look at, though this generally resolved itself into a
matter of opinion. To set against these last, some were the very finest
of their kind, such as Ben, the great Newfoundland, who had the glory of
being painted in company with two small members of the family sixty or
seventy years ago.

Each, of course, had his characteristics, and did his funny, or his
wicked, things. In the face of a recent occurrence, it would have been a
mistake to point a moral, or reference might have been made to Bruce, the
deerhound, shot dead by accident when hunting sheep at night. That would
do for another day, should circumstances arise to give the story point.
There were plenty of other anecdotes besides that, and here are one or
two that Murphy heard.

Perhaps Fritz, the Spitz, did the most remarkable thing of all. His
master was an undergraduate of Christ Church at the time, and had been
always in the habit of taking him with him on his return to Oxford. On a
certain occasion he decided that Fritz, for once, should remain at home.
The next day the dog was missing. Then a letter came, and this is what
Fritz had done. He had found his way into the neighbouring town, distant
three miles, and taken the train to Swindon, as was duly proved. Probably
he changed there, though this is not recorded. But he went on to Didcot,
where he certainly got out, found the Oxford train, and that same
afternoon walked into his master's rooms at Christ Church.

One other action of his deserves to be recorded, for it affords an
instance of how nearly dogs approach at times to human beings. No man is
so wholly hardened as to care to die disliked, while many have a fancy
ere the end to seek forgiveness, that they themselves may die forgiven.
So was it with Fritz. Like many men of genius, his temper was uncertain,
and on more than one occasion he was known to bite. The day before he
died, though old and infirm, he made a round on his own account and
visited one or two to whom he had certainly behaved badly. His action was
recalled when once again he disappeared. But it was further remarked
upon--some adding that they thought they understood--when Fritz was found
curled in a hole beneath a bush--and dead.

Graf, another of the same breed, but belonging to a period twenty years
later than Fritz, had also curious ways of his own.