a fire, and drove our own dog—which was not the old fighter, Jack, but another, brown dog we called Charley Wag, after the thief in the story—into a perfect fever.
Now and then Dainty would hold the coat up for us all to see how well it looked.
''It''s a good job for Dainty that you ain''t a deal taller, John,'' I said. one time she did this.
''It''s a good job for you that you ain''t dead,'' he answered. He was short, and felt it. ''Though a shame for the rest of us. I should like a bit of your skin upon the sleeves of my coat—perhaps upon the cuffs of it, where I wipes my nose. You should look right at home, beside a bulldog or a boxer.''⑦思⑦兔⑦網⑦
He took up his knife, that he always kept by him, and tested the edge with his thumb. ''I ain''t quite decided yet,'' he said, ''but what I shan''t come one night, and take a bit of skin off while you are sleeping. What should you say, Dainty, if I was to make you sew up that?'' *
Dainty put her hand to her mouth and screamed. She wore a ring, too large for her hand; she had wound a bit of thread about the finger beneath, and the thread was quite black.
''You tickler!'' she said.
John smiled, and tapped with the point