. . . there were the Common keepers, and the special constables had helped him a great deal by keeping the sheep in their pens, and preventing anyone from molesting them. “But at night?” “Oh, if they tried to do it within hearing of the dogs, I should soon be aware of it.”
“Would the dog make much of a noise?” “Na, he wad just lay hold at once. There was a policeman, one of the old-fashioned sort, who used to look in to see me, and he just creepit roond the hut wan night, without noise, and Tweed flew at him, got him by the leg, and had him on the ground in no time. He scrambled up, and ran across the common for his life. Next time he saw me he said ‘I’m not coming to see you any more. I never was so frightened as when the dog throwed me on the green.’ If anyone came straight up to the hut with a firm step, and knocked boldly, Tweed would na bother to look at him, but if he carnied along, he’d have him in a minute. Tweed knows what like a man is as soon as he sets eyes on him.”
Dear faithful Tweed, what a sad end was thine! About a twelvemonth after this conversation, a motorist, driving madly along the busy highway which crosses a South London common, knocked down the poor creature, and the end was too horrible for description.
The driver said that he could not see Tweed. Then he told the judge that Tweed was fighting with another dog. “What rideeclous nonsense. If he didna see the dowg, how did he know the dowg was fighting? And if he saw him fighting, how could he say he didna see him? What a . . .”