'Oh my!' she sings out;
'there's that lovelee dog! Would he let me stroke him, Mister Soldier?'
'Ay, he would, mum,' sez I, 'for he's fond o' laady's coompany. Coom
here, Rip, an' speeak to this kind laady.' An'Rip, seein' 'at t'mongoose
hed getten clean awaay, cooms up like t' gentleman he was, nivver a
hauporth shy or okkord.
'Oh, you beautiful--you prettee dog!' she says, clippin' an' chantin'
her speech in a way them sooart has o' their awn; 'I would like a dog
like you. You are so verree lovelee--so awfullee prettee,' an' all
thot sort o' talk, 'at a dog o' sense mebbe thinks nowt on, tho' he
bides it by reason o' his breedin'.
An' then I meks him joomp ovver my swagger-cane, an' shek hands, an'
beg, an' lie dead, an' a lot o' them tricks as laadies teeaches dogs,
though I doan't haud with it mysen, for it's makin' a fool o' a good
dog to do such like.
An' at lung length it cooms out 'at she'd been thrawin' sheep's eyes,
as t' sayin' is, at Rip for many a day. Yo' see, her childer was grown
up, an' she'd nowt mich to do, an' were allus fond of a dog. Soa she
axes me if I'd tek somethin' to dhrink.
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