And there was something in the way he said it that was more than a mere declaration of pride or of affection.

Then he looked at Felix.
"What have you come for, old man ?" Felix smiled.

Quaint way to put it! "For a talk." "Ah!" said Tod, and he whistled.
A largish, well-made dog with a sleek black coat, white underneath, and a black tail white-tipped, came running up, and stood before Tod, with its head rather to one side and its yellow-brown eyes saying: 'I simply must get at what you're thinking, you know.' "Go and tell your mistress to come--Mistress!" The dog moved his tail, lowered it, and went off.
"A gypsy gave him to me," said Tod; "best dog that ever lived." "Every one thinks that of his own dog, old man." "Yes," said Tod; "but this IS." "He looks intelligent." "He's got a soul," said Tod.

"The gypsy said he didn't steal him, but he did." "Do you always know when people aren't speaking the truth, then ?" "Yes." At such a monstrous remark from any other man, Felix would have smiled; but seeing it was Tod, he only asked: "How ?" "People who aren't speaking the truth look you in the face and never move their eyes." "Some people do that when they are speaking the truth." "Yes; but when they aren't, you can see them struggling to keep their eyes straight.

A dog avoids your eye when he's something to conceal; a man stares at you.