Derby, and he understood perfectly well what he had to do. He doesn't try. He grins when you show him his part, and when the time comes for him to do it, he just grins again and lies down and wumps his tail—and looks awfully pleased with himself."
"He's gettin' on, y'know, President Sahib," was the reply. "He isn't the lad he was. I don't know when his birthday comes round—but he's gettin' a bit long in the tooth."
"How old do dogs live to be?" inquired the King's Jockey, peering from under Daddy's cap, which represented the correct silk confection of the royal colours.
"Oh—some more, some less, some about as old as you," replied the Favourite. "We had a big black retriever, when I was a boy, who lived to be a frightful age. His name was William Henry Winterbotham, known as W. H. Freeze-me-tail for short. He simply wouldn't die—and he wouldn't be put out of his misery either. Simply hated the idea. My grandfather thought he ought to be put out of his misery, but not he,—he preferred to stay in it."
