athised, he congratulated, he sported, always at the right
moment. He would sit gravely at Jeremy's feet, his body pressed against
Jeremy's leg, one leg stuck out square, his eyes fixed inquisitively
upon the nursery scene. He would be motionless; then suddenly some
thought would electrify him--his ears would cock, his eyes shine,
his nose quiver, his tail tumble. The crisis would pass; he would be
composed once more. He would slide down to the floor, his whole body
collapsing; his head would rest upon Jeremy's foot; he would dream of
cats, of rats, of birds, of the Jampot, of beef and gravy, of sugar, of
being washed, of the dogs' Valhalla, of fire and warmth, of Jeremy, of
walks when every piece of flying paper was a challenge, of dogs, dogs
that he had known of when he was a puppy, of doing things he shouldn't,
of punishment and wisdom, pride and anger, of love-affairs of his youth,
of battle, of settling-down, of love-affairs in the future, again of
cats and beef, and smells--smells--smells, again of Jeremy, whom he
loved. And Jeremy, watching him now, thus sleeping, and thinking of Dick
Whittington, wondered why it was that a dog would understand so easily,
without explanations, the thoughts and desires he had, and that
all grown-up people would not understand, and would demand so many
explanations, and would laugh at one, and pity one, and despise one. Why
was it? he asked himself.

"I know," he suddenly cried, turning upon Helen; "it can be your
birthday treat!"

"What can?" she asked.

"Why, going to Dick Whittington--all of us."

Helen had, most unfortunately for herself, a birthday only a week after
Christmas, the result being that, in her own opinion at any rate,
she never received "proper presents" on either of those two great
present-giving occasions. She was always allowed, however, a "treat";
her requests were generally in the nature of food; once of a ride in the
train; once even a visit to the Polchester Museum... It was difficult in
those days to find "treats" in Polchester.

"Oh, do you think they'd let us?" she said, her eyes wide.

"We can try," said Jeremy. "I heard Aunt Amy say the other day that she
didn't think it was right for children to see acting, and Mother always
does the opposite to what Aunt Amy says, so p'r'aps it will be all
right. I wish Hamlet could go," he added.

"Don't be silly!" said Helen.

"It isn't silly," Jeremy said indignantly. "It's all about a cat,
anyway, and h