"Had it thtopped?" inquired the Vice.
"Had what stopped?"
"His stilly watch?"
"No, my son—it's a manner o' speakin', a figure of speech, like. I mean there was no noise. No rattle of poor Freeze-me-tail's chain. He was asleep.
"Averting his face, closing his eyes, holding his breath, my anguished Grandfather thrust the revolver into the kennel, fired six times, and, then, sobbing, with bursting heart, he fled from that unhallowed spot. . . .
"But he was a man with a high and stern sense of duty. He would see the thing through properly. He would give poor William H. Winterbotham a proper funeral and attend it himself. So in the morning he arose, dressed himself, and went to take his last look at the dead body of his poor dear old faithful friend in the kennel. As he stooped with a tragic groan to look into it, W. Henry Winterbotham rushed out and bit him. Grandfather had missed him every time. William Henry Winterbotham is alive still. . . ."
