all such flights were founded
in mere superstition, for dogs are even more superstitious than boys
and coloured people; and the most firmly established of all dog
superstitions is that any dog--be he the smallest and feeblest in the
world--can whip any trespasser whatsoever.

A rat-terrier believes that on his home grounds he can whip an elephant.
It follows, of course, that a big dog, away from his own home, will run
from a little dog in the little dog's neighbourhood. Otherwise, the big
dog must face a charge of inconsistency, and dogs are as consistent as
they are superstitious. A dog believes in war, but he is convinced
that there are times when it is moral to run; and the thoughtful
physiognomist, seeing a big dog fleeing out of a little dog's yard, must
observe that the expression of the big dog's face is more conscientious
than alarmed: it is the expression of a person performing a duty to
himself.

Penrod understood these matters perfectly; he knew that the gaunt brown
hound Duke chased up the alley had fled only out of deference to a
custom, yet Penrod could not refrain from bragging of Duke to the
hound's owner, a fat-faced stranger of twelve or thirteen, who had
wandered into the neighbourhood.

"You better keep that ole yellow dog o' yours back," said Penrod
ominously, as he climbed the fence. "You better catch him and hold him
till I get mine inside the yard again. Duke's chewed up some pretty bad
bulldogs around here."

The fat-faced boy gave Penrod a fishy stare. "You'd oughta learn him not
to do that," he said. "It'll make him sick."

"What will?"

The stranger laughed raspingly and gazed up the alley, where the hound,
having come to a halt, now coolly sat down, and, with an expression of
roguish benevolence, patronizingly watched the tempered fury of Duke,
whose assaults and barkings were becoming perfunctory.

"What'll make Duke sick?" Penrod demanded.

"Eatin' dead bulldogs people leave around here."

This was not improvisation but formula, adapted from other occasions to
the present encounter; nevertheless, it was new to Penrod, and he was
so taken with it that resentment lost itself in admiration. Hastily
committing the gem to memory for use upon a dog-owning friend, he
inquired in a sociable tone:

"What's your dog's name?"

"Dan. You better call your ole pup, 'cause Dan eats LIVE dogs."

Dan's actions poorly supported his master's assertion, for, upon Duke's
ceasing to bark, Dan r