THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
Brierley loves his dog Peter, there would never be another Chateaubriand cooked in the world. What would you say if I offered you one of that dear fellow’s ribs for breakfast? It would be quite easy—the butcher is only around the corner and Pierre would broil it to a turn. But that would not do for you gourmets. You must have liver or sweetbreads cut from an animal you never saw and of which, of course, you know nothing. If the poor animal had been a playmate of Mignon’s—and she once had a pet lamb—you could no sooner cut its throat than you could Peter’s.”
Before Louis could again explode, Brierley, who, at mention of Peter’s name had leaned over to stroke the dog’s ears, now broke in, a dry smile on his face.
“There’s another side of this question which you fellows don’t seem to see, and which interests me a lot. You talk about cruelty to animals, but I tell you that most of the cruelty to-day is served out to the man with the gun. The odds are really against him. The birds down my way have got so almighty cunning that they club together and laugh at us. I hear them many a time when Peter and I are dragging ourselves home empty-handed. They
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