He would slide down to the floor, his whole body collapsing; his head would rest upon Jeremy's foot; he would dream of cats, of rats, of birds, of the Jampot, of beef and gravy, of sugar, of being washed, of the dogs' Valhalla, of fire and warmth, of Jeremy, of walks when every piece of flying paper was a challenge, of dogs, dogs that he had known of when he was a puppy, of doing things he shouldn't, of punishment and wisdom, pride and anger, of love-affairs of his youth, of battle, of settling-down, of love-affairs in the future, again of cats and beef, and smells--smells--smells, again of Jeremy, whom he loved.

And Jeremy, watching him now, thus sleeping, and thinking of Dick Whittington, wondered why it was that a dog would understand so easily, without explanations, the thoughts and desires he had, and that all grown-up people would not understand, and would demand so many explanations, and would laugh at one, and pity one, and despise one.

Why was it?
he asked himself.
"I know," he suddenly cried, turning upon Helen; "it can be your birthday treat!" "What can ?" she asked.
"Why, going to Dick Whittington--all of us." Helen had, most unfortunately for herself, a birthday only a week after Christmas, the result being that, in her own opinion at any rate, she never received "proper presents" on either of those two great present-giving occasions.

She was always allowed, however, a "treat"; her requests were generally in the nature of food; once of a ride in the train; once even a visit to the Polchester Museum...

It was difficult in those days to find "treats" in Polchester.
"Oh, do you think they'd let us ?" she said, her eyes wide.
"We can try," said Jeremy.