He knew the leg was dead, and gnawed it off nearly to the shoulder, and though he was very sick for a time, yet in the end he got well.
To return to Dandy.

I knew he was only waiting for the spring to leave us, and I was not sorry.

The first fine day he was off, and during the rest of the spring and summer we occasionally met him running about the town with a set of fast dogs.

One day I stopped and asked him how he concealed himself in such a quiet place as Fairport, and he said he was dying to get back to New York, and was hoping that his master's yacht would come and take him away.
Poor Dandy never left Fairport.

After all, he was not such a bad dog.
There was nothing really vicious about him, and I hate to speak of his end.