"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"

"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.

"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"

"Oh no!" said Jack.

"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."

"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"

"Why, the dawg."

"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."

"It is so; it's the colour--yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to
go."

"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of
familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.

"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the
rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."

"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"

"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them.
He works against time, of course."