Jabez looked like something out of Oliver Twist. He had a scruffy beard and a decidedly unfriendly manner. He was standing with his thumbs in a pair of impossibly dirty braces, and his hands were, if possible, even dirtier.

At his feet lay an enormous brown-and-white bulldog, its ugly flattened snout resting on its paws. Even at this distance, I could see its powerful shoulders and belligerent underslung jaw. Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist had had a bulldog, hadn’t he?

I didn’t see any sign of anyone who might be Terence’s friend Cyril, and I wondered if Jabez and his dog had murdered him and thrown him in the river.

Terence, obliviously chattering, hurried down the bank toward the boat. And the monster. I followed cautiously, keeping well to the rear and hoping it might ignore us like the hound at the station, but as soon as it saw us, it sat up alertly.

“Here we are,” Terence called out gaily, and the bulldog took off at a run for us.

I let go of the satchel and box with a thud, clapped the covered basket to my chest like a shield, and looked wildly about for a stick.

The bulldog’s wide mouth opened as he ran, revealing foot-long canines and row upon row of sharklike teeth. Bulldogs had been used for fighting in the Nineteenth Century, hadn’t they? Fighting bulls, that was how they’d gotten their name, wasn’t it? Leaping for the bull’s jugular and hanging on? That was how they’d gotten that mashed-in nose, too, and those heavy jowls, wasn’t it? The flat muzzle had been bred into them so they could breathe without letting go.

“Cyril!” Terence cried, but no one appeared to save us, and the bulldog shot past him and straight for me.

I dropped the covered basket, and it rolled off toward the riverbank. Terence dived for it. The bulldog paused and then took off for me again.

I had never understood what would hypnotize a rabbit into standing there and staring at an approaching snake, but now I realized it must be the snake’s unusual method of movement.

The bulldog was running straight toward me, but it was more a roll than a run, and there was a lateral component to it, so that although he was clearly going directly for my throat, he nevertheless was canting to the left, so much that I thought he might miss me altogether, and by the time I realized he wouldn’t, it was too late to run.

The bulldog flung himself at me and I went down, trying to protect my jugular with both hands and wishing I had been more sympathetic to Carruthers.

The bulldog had his front paws on my shoulders and his wide mouth inches from mine.

“Cyril!” Terence said, but I didn’t dare turn my head to see where he was. I hoped, wherever he was, that he had a weapon.

“Good boy,” I said to the bulldog, not very convincingly.

“This basket of yours nearly went in the drink,” Terence said, moving into my field of vision. “Best catch I’ve made since the match against Harrow in ‘84.” He set the basket down on the ground beside me.

“Could you…” I said, cautiously taking one hand away from my neck to point at the bulldog.

“Oh, of course, how thoughtless of me,” Terence said. “You two haven’t been properly introduced.” He squatted down beside us. “This is Mr. Henry,” he said to the bulldog, “the newest member of our merry band and our financial savior.”

The bulldog opened his huge mouth in a wide, drooling grin.

“Ned,” Terence said, “allow me to introduce Cyril.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“How do you do, Cyril?” I said, not attempting to get up. I had read somewhere that any sudden movement could cause them to attack. Or was that bears? I wished Finch had brought me a tape on bulldogs instead of butlers. Bulldogs nowadays are solid marshmallow. Oriel’s mascot has a pleasant disposition and spends all of his time lying in front of the porter’s lodge, hoping someone will come along and pet him.

But this was a Nineteenth-Century bulldog, and the bulldog had originally been bred for bull-baiting, a charming sport in which bulldogs, specifically bred for tenacity and a ferocious disposition, latched onto vital arteries, and the bull, understandably annoyed, attempted to gore the dogs and/or toss them on his horns. When had bull-baiting been outlawed? Surely before 1888. But it would take some time, wouldn’t it, to breed all that tenacity and fierceness out of them?

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Cyril,” I said hopefully.

Cyril made a sound that might have been a growl. Or a belch.

“Cyril comes from an excellent family,” Terence was saying, still squatting beside my prostrate form. “His father was Deadly Dan out of Medusa. His great-great-grandfather was Executioner. One of the great bull-baiters of all time. Never lost a fight.”

“Really?” I said weakly.

“Cyril’s great-great-great grandfather fought Old Silverback.” He shook his head in admiration. “Eight-hundred-pound grizzly bear. Latched onto his muzzle and didn’t let go for five hours.”

“But all that tenacity and fierceness has been bred out of them?” I said hopefully.

“Not at all,” Terence said.

Cyril growled again.

“I shouldn’t think they ever had it,” Terence continued, “except as an occupational necessity. Being clawed by a bear would make anyone ferocious, I should think. Wouldn’t it, Cyril?”

Cyril made the low rumble again, and this time it sounded definitely like a belch.

“A heart of gold Executioner had, so they say. Mr. Henry’s going on the river with us, Cyril,” he said, as if the bulldog didn’t still have me down and thoroughly drooled on, “as soon as we load the boat and settle up with Jabez.” He pulled out his pocket watch and snapped it open. “Come along, Ned. It’s nearly a quarter to twelve. You can play with Cyril later.” He picked up both bandboxes and started for the dock.

Cyril, apparently desiring to help, got off me and ambled over to sniff at the covered basket. I picked myself up, rescued the basket, and followed Terence down to the river.

Jabez was standing on the dock next to a large pile of luggage, his arms folded militantly. “They think I’m going to let them pack the boat before they pay,” he said to no one in particular, “but Jabez has seen that trick before.” He thrust an impressively dirty hand under my nose. “Farnsecks.”

I had no more idea of what “farnsecks” was than “noinbob.” “Here,” I said, handing Terence my purse, “you settle up with him, and I’ll fetch the rest of the luggage.”

I gathered up the portmanteau and the satchel, which had been knocked halfway up the steps when Cyril hit me, and took them down to the dock, Cyril waddling amiably along beside me.

Terence was standing in the boat, which was a peeling dark green and had Victory stencilled on its prow. It was battered-looking but large, which was a good thing, since the pile of luggage on the dock turned out to be Terence’s.

“A beauty, isn’t she?” Terence said, taking the portmanteau from me and stowing it under the middle seat. “We’ll have her loaded and be on the river in no time.”