For Jean is the biggest dog that has lived for some time.

 

He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame¹. He once bit his own master. He could give such a look out of his eyes and open such a mouth that there was no more horrible sight in the world. And then he would be the mildest of the mild: my little boy could put his hand in his mouth and ride on his back and pull his tail.

 

When we get there, we hear that Jean is already buried.

 

We look at each other in dismay², to think how quickly that happens! And we go to the grave, which is in the grounds of the factory, where the tall chimneys stand.

 

We sit down and can't understand it.

 

We tell each other all the stories that we know of Jean's wonderful size and strength. The one remembers this, the other that. And, as each story is told, the whole thing becomes only more awful and obscure³.

 

At last we go home by train.

 

Besides ourselves, there is a kind old gentleman in the compartment⁴, who would like to make friends with my little boy. But the boy has nothing to talk about to the kind old gentleman. He stands at the window, which comes just under his chin, and stares out.

 

His eyes light upon some tall chimneys:

 

"That's where Jean is buried," he says.

 

"Yes."

 

The landscape flies past. He can think only of that and see only that and, when some more chimneys appear, he says again:

 

"That's where Jean is buried."

 

"No, my little friend," says the kind old gentleman. "That was over there."

 

The boy looks at him with surprise. I hasten to reassure⁵ him:

 

"Those are Jean's chimneys," I say.

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