"Tell uth all about it—like a thtory, pleathe Buthter," panted the Vice, who had just been "placed" in the Derby (six times round the Club premises on all fours).
"Well—William Henry Winterbotham had been a grand sporting dog of my Grandfather's for I don't know how many years—and Grandfather loved him better than anything on earth, I think. He'd never been out shooting, or for a ride or walk, or drive, never been outside the house in fact, for about twenty years, without old William Henry Winterbotham. Then suddenly the poor old chap crocked up, went deaf, dumb, blind, and silly, and began to lose his teeth, hair, and temper. Grandfather was upset. He worried over that dog a sight more than he would have done over me, If I'd begun to crock up. He used to get a fresh doctor to him every day—and they all said the same thing—'We can't cure old age'. Fact was, old W. H. W. ought to have died long ago.
"At last Grandfather realised the truth—that nothing could be done for William Henry, and that it would be true kindness to put him out of
