Her owner was a tall, thin man, with sly grey eyes, set
very near together, and a lean, resolute face. Doggy men are freemasons,
and I soon opened the conversation by speaking of the pretty fawn. She
pricked her ears, and to my amazement, they stood up like those of a
rabbit. Such a weird, out-of-the-way head I never saw, though the dog
looked a nice, well-trained greyhound when she had her ears laid back.
I said, "Why, she's a lurcher."
"She ain't all greyhound; but the best man as ever I knew always said
there never was a prick-eared one a bad 'un."
"Is she for sale?"
"There ain't enough money to buy her."
"She's so very good?"
"Never was one like her!"
I found out, when we became fast friends, that the man's statement was
quite correct. The dog's intelligence was supernatural. For the benefit
of innocents who do not know what poaching is like, I will give an idea
of this one dog's depredations. The owner--the Consumptive, I call him,
as his night work has damaged his lungs--grew very friendly one day, and
confidential.
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