Part 9 (1/2)

From that time to this I never heard what became of Dreadnought, and never saw the man who bought him, even in the dock. It is strange, however, that animals so true and faithful as dogs and horses should be instruments so perverted as to make men liars and rogues; while for intelligence many of them could give most of us pounds and pa.s.s us easily at the winning-post.

Speaking of dogs reminds me of dog-stealers and _their_ ways, of which some years ago I had a curious experience. I have told the story before, but it has become altered, and the true one has never been heard since. Indeed, no story is told correctly when its copyright is infringed.

There was a man at the time referred to known as old Sam Linton, the most extraordinary dog-fancier who ever lived, and the most curious thing about him was that he always fancied other people's dogs to his own. He was a remarkable dog-_finder_, too. In these days of dogs'

homes the services of such a man as Linton are not so much in request; but he was a home in himself, and did a great deal of good in his way by restoring lost dogs to their owners; so that it became almost a common question in those days, when a lady lost her pet, to ask if she had made any inquiry of old Sam Linton. He was better than the wise woman who indicated in some mysterious jargon where the stolen watch might or might not be found in the distant future, for old Sam _brought_ you the very dog on a _specified day_! The wise woman never knew where the lost property was; old Sam did.

I dare say he was a great blackguard, but as he has long joined the majority, it is of no consequence. There was one thing I admired about Sam: there was a thorough absence in him of all hypocrisy and cant. He professed no religion whatever, but acted upon the principle that a bargain was a bargain, and should be carried out as between man and man. That was his idea, and as I found him true to it, I respected him accordingly, and mention his name as one of the few genuinely honest men I have met.

The way I made his acquaintance was singular. I was dining with my brother benchers at the Middle Temple Hall, when a message was brought that a gentleman would like to see me ”partickler” after dinner, if I could give him a few minutes.

When I came out of the hall, there was a man looking very like a burglar. His dress, or what you should call his ”get-up,” is worth a momentary glance. He had a cat-skin cap in his hand about as large as a frying-pan, and nearly of the same colour--this he kept turning round and round first with one hand, then with both--a pea-jacket with large pearl b.u.t.tons, corduroy breeches, a kind of moleskin waistcoat, and blucher shoes. He impressed one in a moment as being fond of drink. On one or two occasions I found this quality of great service to me in matters relating to the discovery of lost dogs. Drink, no doubt, has its advantages to those who do not drink.

”Muster Orkins, sir,” said he, ”beggin' your pardon, sir, but might I have a word with you, Muster Orkins, if it ain't a great intrusion, sir?”

I saw my man at once, and showed him that I understood business.

”You are Sam Linton?”

It took his breath away. He hadn't much, but poor old Sam did not like to part with it. In a very husky voice, that never seemed to get outside his mouth, he said,--

”_Yus, sur_; that's it, Mr. Orkins.” Then he breathed, ”Yer 'onner, wot I means to say is this--”

”What do you want, Linton? Never mind what you mean to say; I know you'll never say it.”

”Well, Mr. Orkins, sir, ye see it is as this: you've lost a little dorg. Well, you'll say, 'How do you know that 'ere, Sam?' 'Well, sir,'

I says, ''ow don't I know it? Ain't you bin an' offered _fourteen pun_ for that there leetle dorg? Why, it's knowed dreckly all round Mile End--the werry 'ome of lorst dorgs--and that there dorg, find him when you wool, why, he ain't worth more'n _fourteen bob_, sir.' Now, 'ow d'ye 'count for that, sir?”

”You've seen him, then?”

”Not I,” says Sam, unmoved even by a twitch; ”but I knows a party as 'as, and it ain't likely, Mr. Orkins, as you'll get 'im by orferin'

a price like that, for why? Why, it stands to reason--don't it, Mr.

Orkins?--it ain't the _dorg_ you're payin' for, but _your feelins_ as these 'ere wagabonds is _tradin' on, Mr. Orkins_; that's where it is.

O sir, it's abominable, as I tells 'em, keepin' a gennelman's dorg.”

I was perfectly thunderstruck with the man's philosophy and good feeling.

”Go on, Mr. Linton.”

”Well, Mr. Orkins, they knows--d.a.m.n 'em!--as your feelins ull make you orfer more and more, for who knows that there dorg might belong _to a lidy_, and then _her_ feelins has to be took into consideration.

I'll tell 'ee now, Mr. Orkins, how this cla.s.s of wagabond works, for wagabonds I must allow they be. Well, they meets, let's say, at a public, and one says to another, 'I say, Bill,' he says, 'that there dawg as you found 'longs to Lawyer Orkins; he's bloomin' fond o'

dawgs, is Lawyer Orkins, so they say, and he can pay for it.' 'Right you are,' says Bill, 'and a d---- lawyer _shall_ pay for it. He makes us pay when we wants him, and now we got him we'll make him pay.' So you see, Mr. Orkins, where it is, and whereas the way to do it is to say to these fellers--I'll just suppose, sir, I'm you and you're me, sir; no offence, I hope--'Well, I wants the dawg back.' Well, they says; leastways, I ses, ses I,--

”'Lawyer Orkins, you lost a dawg, 'ave yer?'

”'Yes,' ses you, 'I have,' like a gennelman--excuse my imitation, sir--' and I don't _keer a d.a.m.n for the whelp_!' That's wot you orter say. 'He's only a bloomin' mongrel.'”