The idle life which I was compelled to spend gave me time for reflection, and I believe my mind was more active during the few months my body was on crutches than it had been for years previous. My thoughts received little interruption from Nip, who, after having recounted the events which had taken place during my absence, had little more to say. The kindness of the great city dogs having removed all fear of want, or even the necessity of labour, from our comfortable home, produced at first a pleasing effect upon me; but as my strength returned, and I managed to walk about the room without assistance, a desire for active employment became quite necessary to my happiness.

"What have I done, Nip?" I would often say, as I took my usual exercise in our modest parlour; "what have I done, Nip, that I should be clothed, and fed, and housed, without labouring for such advantages, like the rest of dog-kind? These paws, large and strong as they are, were never intended for idleness; this back, broad as it is, was meant for some other purpose than to show off a fine coat; this brain, which can reflect and admire and resolve, had not such capabilities given to it in order that they might be wasted in a life of ease. Work, Nip, work; such work as a dog can do should be sought after and done, for nothing can be more shocking than to see an animal's powers, either of body or mind, wasted away in idleness."

Nip replied but little, although he winked his eyes very vigorously. I was used to his manner now, and could understand his meaning without the necessity of words. Both his looks and gestures told me that he thought as I did, and I only waited till I could use my own legs freely, to set about a resolution I had been forming in my mind.

It was a happy day when I could again mix in the bustle of the streets, and find my strength once more restored. The first use I made of it was to go to the great house where the chief dogs of Caneville are accustomed to sit during a certain time of the day to judge matters relating to the city. When I arrived, they were almost alone, and I was therefore able to present myself without delay, and explain my business.

I began by thanking them for what they had done for me and my old friend Nip, in providing us with a house and with so many comforts. I told them, although the goodness of Nip rendered him worthy of every attention, as he had grown old in a useful and laborious life, I had no such claims. I was still young—my strength had come back to me—I had no right to eat the food of idleness where so many dogs, more deserving than I, were often in want of a bone, but whose modesty prevented them making known their necessities. I would still thankfully enjoy the home, which the kindness of the great animals of Caneville had furnished me, but they must permit me to work for it—they must permit me to do something which might be useful to the city in return, for I should devour the fare provided for me with a great deal more appetite, if I could say to myself when I felt hungry, "Job, brother Job, eat your dinner, for you have earned it."

The assembly of dogs heard me with great attention to the end; not a bark interrupted my little speech, not a movement disturbed my attention. I was pleased to see that tails wagged with approbation when I had concluded, and was charmed to hear the chief among them, who was white with age, express himself delighted, yes, that was the word, delighted with my spirit.

"We are pleased, Job," he said, at the end of his reply, "we are pleased to observe that there are yet true dogs in Caneville; there have been animals calling themselves so, whose character was so base, and whose manner was so cringing, that they have brought disrepute upon the name; and we are sorry to say that in many countries the title of a dog is given to the vilest and most worthless creatures. All the finer qualities of our race have been lost sight of, because a few among us have been mean or wicked; and a whole nation has been pointed at with scorn, because some of its members have acted badly. We are happy, Job, to find in you a 'worthy subject,' and we shall be glad to give you all assistance in choosing an occupation in which you may employ your time, and be of use to your fellow-creatures."

I should not have repeated this to you, as it is not, perhaps, necessary for my story, but that I wished to correct an error, which many have made, concerning the character of this very dog. He has been described by several as cold, and proud, and sometimes cruel; and yet to me he was warm, and friendly, and most kind. Do not you think when we hear animals grumbling against their fellows, it would be just as well to think who the grumblers are, before we form our opinions? or, at least, hear the opinions of many before we decide ourselves?

I need not tell you all that passed between us, and what was said by this dog and by that, about the choice of my occupation. It was agreed at last that I should be appointed chief of the Caneville police, as the place had become vacant through the death of a fine old mastiff some days previous. I wonder whether he was a relation of my own, for I have already told you my mother belonged to that great family. He had received some severe wounds when trying to capture a fierce beast of the name of Lupo, the terror of the city, and he had died from the effects of them in spite of all the care of the doctors. What made the matter worse, was the fact that Lupo was yet at liberty, and many dogs were afraid to go out at night for fear of meeting with this terrible animal.

To tell the truth, I was rather pleased than otherwise that Lupo had still to be taken. It was agreeable to me to think that work, difficult work, was to be done, and that I was called upon to do it. I felt proud at the idea that the animals of the great city of Caneville would look up to me, to me, poor Job, as the dog chosen to releive them of their fears, and restore security to their streets. "Job," I cried out to myself, in a firm tone, "Job, here is a chance of being useful to your country; let no danger, no fear, even of death, stop you in the good work. Job, you are called upon to perform a duty, and let nothing, mind nothing, turn you from it."

After I had become acquainted with all the dogs who were under my command, I spent much time each day in exercising them, and in endeavouring by kind words, and by my own example, to make them attend strictly to their work. I was pleased to observe that I succeeded. Some, who were pointed out to me as difficult to manage, became my most faithful followers, and I had not been two months in my employment before all were so devoted to me, that I believe they would have died to serve me.

In all this time, nothing had been heard of the terrible Lupo, and all my inquiries procured no information concerning where he was to be found. I learned that he was not a native of Caneville, although his father once belonged to the city. He was born in a country beyond the great wood, and his mother came from a fierce tribe of wolves, who, although they a little resemble dogs in appearance, and speak a very similar language, are much more ferocious, and seem to look upon the whole canine family as natural enemies.

The opinion began to spread in Caneville that Lupo had at length left the city, and the inhabitants, by degrees, recovered their usual quiet; when, suddenly, the alarm spread more widely than before; as, two nights in succession, some rich dogs were robbed and ill-treated, and one of them was lamed by the ferocity of the chief of the terrible band who had attacked them, and whose description convinced me it was Lupo.

These accounts caused me much pain, as I had neither been able to prevent the attacks, nor discover the animals who had made them. In my desire to find out and capture the robbers, I could scarcely take food or rest. I managed to sleep a little in the day-time, and at night, dressed in the simplest manner, so as to excite no attention, I wandered quietly from street to street, stopping to listen to the slightest noise, and going in any direction that I heard a murmur. One or two of my dogs generally followed at a distance, ready to assist me if I called for help.

It was a fine night. The moon and stars were brilliant in the sky, and made the blue all the deeper from their own bright rays. I had been already two hours crawling through the lower parts of the city, and was mounting the hill which led to a fine building where my steps often carried me—sometimes without my intending it—in order to watch over the safety of those who slept within. It was the house of Fida—that Fida who had been to me so kind, so tender; that Fida, who so patiently softened down my rudeness, and had tried to teach me to know what was good by letting me become her friend.

I had nearly reached the top of the hill, and paused an instant to observe the bright light and dark shadows which the house displayed, as the moon fell upon it, or some portion of the building interposed. Profound sleep had fallen upon the city. The river might be seen from the spot where I was standing, running swiftly along; and so deep was the silence that you could even hear the gush of the water as it fretted round some large stones in the centre of the stream.

Suddenly there rose into the air from the ground above me, the sharp, clear howl of a female voice, and at the same instant the sound of a rattle broke upon my ear as a signal of alarm. I sprang up the few feet which were between me and the house with the speed of lightning, and turning rapidly the corner of the building, reached the principal entrance. One look told me everything: at an upper window, in a loose dress, was Fida herself, springing the rattle which she held in her paw, with a strength that fear alone could have given her; and below, where I myself stood, were four or five dogs differently engaged, but evidently trying to get into the house.

A kick from my right leg sent one of them to the ground, and, with my clenched paw, I struck a blow at the second. Never do I remember feeling such strength within me, such a resolution to attack twenty dogs if it were necessary, although the next minute I might be torn in pieces. I have sometimes asked myself whether the presence of Fida had anything to do with it, or if a sense of duty only inspired me. I have never been able to reply to the question in a satisfactory manner. I only know that the fact was as I say, and that the blow I gave was surprising even to myself; my paw caught the animal precisely under his chin, and sent him flying backwards, with his nose in the air and his hat behind him; and as the moon shone brilliantly upon his upturned face, I recognised the features described to me as those of Lupo. He lay so still upon the ground that I thought he must be killed; so, leaving him for a moment, I pursued some others who were running off in the distance, but did not succeed in catching them. I said a few cheering words to Fida at the window, and returned to the spot of my encounter with Lupo; but instead of that terrible beast, found some of my own followers, the father of Fida, and one or two servants, who had been roused by the tumult, and had come out to learn the cause. Lupo was nowhere to be seen. He had either partly recovered from the blow, and had managed to crawl away, or had been dragged off by some of his troop.

Nothing could have been more fortunate to me than this night's adventure. The father of Fida, who had seen the attack from his window, was the head of one of the best families of dogs in Caneville, and being, besides, very rich, he enjoyed great power. He was so pleased with what I had done, that he not only took a great liking to me himself, but he spoke of my conduct in the highest terms to the great assembly. I received public thanks; I was admitted to the honour which I now hold, that of forming one of the second assembly of the city; I was loaded with rich presents, and equally rich praise; and I may also date from that night, the obtaining the richest gift of all, the gift which has made the happiness of my best years; I mean the possession of my wife, the beautiful Fida.

It is true that I did not procure that felicity at once. There were many difficulties to be got over before the noble spaniel would think of allowing his daughter to become the wife of plain Mr. Job. His son, also, of whom I have spoken previously, could not bear, at first, the idea of his sister not marrying some one as noble as herself, and thought, very naturally, that she was far too good to have her fortunes united with mine. Fida herself, however, was so firm, and yet so tender; so straightforward, and yet so modest, that she finally broke down all opposition. She persuaded her father that no title could be more noble than the one I had acquired, that of "Honest Job;" she won over her brother, by slily asking him, which among his grand companions could have met a whole band of fierce dogs, with Lupo at their head, and, single-pawed, could have conquered them all? By degrees, every objection was cleared away, and Fida became mine.

The chief interest of my life terminates here; for although, in my position as head of the police, I had many other adventures, they were too much alike, and of too common an order, to be worth relating. Before I close, however, I must mention a circumstance which occurred shortly after my battle with the robbers, as it is curious in itself, and refers to an animal of whom I have before spoken.

I was quietly walking along a bye-street of Caneville, when a miserable, thin, little puppy came behind me, and gently pulled my coat. On turning round to ask him what he wanted, he begged me in the most imploring tone to come and see his father, who was very ill.

"And who is your father, little pup?" I inquired.

"His name is Lupo," said the thin dog, in a trembling voice.

"Lupo!" I cried out in surprise. "But do you not know who I am, and that I am forced to be your father's greatest enemy?"

"I know, I know," the pup replied; "but father told me to come and seek you, for that you were good, and would not harm him, if you knew he was so miserable." And here the little dog began howling in a way which moved me.

"Go on," I said, after a moment; "go on; I will follow you."

As the little dog ran before, through some of the low and miserable parts of the city, the idea once came into my head that perhaps this was a scheme of Lupo's to get me into his power. But the puppy's grief had been too real to allow me to believe, young as he was, that he could be acting a part; so with a stout resolution I went forward.

We arrived at a low and dirty kennel, where only the greatest misery could bear to live. We passed through a hole, for so it appeared, rather than a doorway, and I found myself in a little room, lit by a break in the wall. On the single poor bed lay a wretched object, gasping for breath, while a ragged pup, somewhat older than my little guide, had buried his face in the clothes at the bottom of the bed. Three other tiny creatures, worn to the bone with poverty and want of food, came crowding round me, in a way that was piteous to behold; and with their looks, not words, for they said nothing, asked me to do something for their miserable parent. I procured from a neighbouring tavern a bason of broth with which I succeeded in reviving the once terrible Lupo; but it was only a flash before life departed for ever. In broken words, he recommended to my care the poor little objects round. Bad as he was, he still had feeling for them, and it was easy to observe that at this sad moment his thoughts were more of them than of himself; for when I promised to protect them, he pressed my paw with his remaining strength to his hot lips, moaned faintly, and expired.

My tale is over. Would that it had been more entertaining, more instructive. But the incidents of my career have been few, and my path, with the one or two exceptions I have described, has been a smooth one. I have heard it said that no history of a life, however simple, is without its lesson. If it be so, then perhaps some good may be derived from mine. If it teach the way to avoid an error, or correct a fault; if any portion of it win a smile from a sad heart, or awake a train of serious thought in a gay one, my dog's tale will not have been unfolded in vain.

THE END.

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