On Thursday he smashed the mirror during an attempt to get up a fight with another dog that he thought he saw in there, and he clawed the sofa to rags.
On Saturday he had a fit in the hall, and spoiled about eight square yards of Brussels carpet utterly.

When he recovered, he went back into the parlor.

At last I borrowed Coffin's dog and sent him in to fight Butterwick's dog out.

It was an exhilarating contest.

They fought on the chairs and sofas; they upset a table and smashed all the ornaments on it; they scattered blood and hair in blotches all over the carpet; they got entangled in one of the lace curtains and dragged it and the frame down with a crash; they scratched and bit and tore and frothed and yelled; and at last Coffin's dog gave in, put his tail between his legs and retreated, while Butterwick's dog got on a sixty-dollar Turkish rug, so that he could bleed comfortably.
It didn't seem to occur to him to go home, and still Butterwick didn't come up.