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“That might have been Spice the Terrier, who was here when I was a pup,” said Watch. “I know his song well enough. He was always shouting it at something.

“A cat hunt!

A rat hunt!

A bird, beast, or bat hunt!

Fur or feather, hide or skin,

Shake him out and claw him in.

Grip your teeth beneath his chin

And there’s the end of that hunt.”

Watch had fairly snapped out Spice’s song.

“That’s it!” squealed the Doctor. “That’s the very song—and look at my fur! It will take a dip in cold water to smooth it again.” He was as fluffy as Tad Coon’s tail. “Now, Watch, what’s your song?”

“Oh, I’m no regular kind of a dog, so I really haven’t any,” said Watch, looking a bit regretful. “I just do—whatever I’m told the best I can and”—here his ears pricked and his tail began to wag—“I look after Tommy Peele.”

“But why must you always do things?” said Nibble.

“Why, everyone has to have a job of some kind,” said Trailer. “Or else he’s a worthless old scrump not worth feeding. And, if it’s really your own special job, you enjoy doing it. I love to hunt, but I wouldn’t care much about driving cows.”