Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign doghood in a most disrespectful way.  But old Betty had gone to sleep, and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it’s likely she would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest.  “Yes,” shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, “let every dog take a solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion—­at least when no one is looking—­and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms.  No false loyalty or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us,” he continued.  “The baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood.”  Cries of “Shame!” greeted this remark.  I decided that it was time to interpose.  With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.

“Fellow dogs,” I said, “it is clear that we must choose here and now, once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism.  Tails up those who wish to remain British!” And of course every tail went up.  “Tails up, the Bolshevists!” But the Borzoi’s was down beyond recall and shivering between his legs.  “That being your decision, ladies and gentlemen,” I continued, “the meeting will constitute itself a Committee of Safety.  Remarks have been passed about your Chairman and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go unchallenged.  All I ask is plenty of room and no favour.”

All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound.  It’s no good running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face the music.  Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down our way Bolshevism hasn’t a leg to stand on.  Of course Master, when he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn’t fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi’s owner came round next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and had no locus standi.  I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had no loci standi either, because I’d jolly well nearly chewed them off; and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat on it, saying he wasn’t hungry himself.

Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and I don’t mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings.  In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with “Municipal Dog’s-meat,” “Rabbits in Regent’s Park,” “The Prosecution of Untruthful Parlourmaids,” “Shorter Fur and Longer Legs,” were carried without discussion.  Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.