At eight-thirty he would
breakfast in a more sensible fashion with Mr. Blair, on the first floor,
and on occasions would join Jack Gadbut, who was a late riser, in a
devilled kidney at eleven.
From then till about five, when I generally had a cup of tea and a chop,
he regularly disappeared. Where he went and what he did between those
hours nobody ever knew. Gadbut swore that twice he had met him coming
out of a stockbroker's office in Threadneedle Street, and, improbable
though the statement at first appeared, some colour of credibility began
to attach to it when we reflected upon the dog's inordinate passion for
acquiring and hoarding coppers.
This craving of his for wealth was really quite remarkable. He was an
elderly dog, with a great sense of his own dignity; yet, on the promise
of a penny, I have seen him run round after his own tail until he didn't
know one end of himself from the other.
He used to teach himself tricks, and go from room to room in the evening,
performing them, and when he had completed his programme he would sit up
and beg. All the fellows used to humour him. He must have made pounds
in the course of the year.
Once, just outside our door, I saw him standing in a crowd, watching a
performing poodle attached to a hurdy-gurdy. The poodle stood on his
head, and then, with his hind legs in the air, walked round on his front
paws.
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