Of course they eat their heads off.
Yes--don't say another word.

Send them up one at a time--Floe first!" The scene that followed always lingered in his mind.

For days thereafter he could not mention their name, even to Todd, without the tears springing to his eyes.
Up the kitchen flight they tumbled--not one at a time, but all in a scramble, bounding straight at him, slobbering all over his face and hands, their paws scraping his clothes--each trying to climb into his lap--big Gordon setters, all four.

He swept them off and ranged them in a row before his arm-chair with their noses flat to the carpet, their brown agate eyes following his every movement.
"Todd says you eat too much, you damned rascals!" he cried in enforced gayety, leaning forward, shaking his finger in their faces.

"What the devil do you mean, coming into a gentleman's private apartments and eating him out of house and home!--and that's what you're doing.
I'm going to sell you!--do you hear that ?--sell you to some stingy curmudgeon who'll starve you to death, and that's what you deserve!...
Come here, Floe--you dear old doggie, you--nice Floe!...