Wilkinson picked up fossils enough, species of trilobites
chiefly, with a few graptolites, lingulas and strophomenas, to start a
museum. These, as Coristine had suggested in Toronto, he actually tied
up in his silk handkerchief, which he slung on the crook of his stick
and carried over his shoulder. The lawyer also gathered a few, and
bestowed them in the side pocket of his coat not devoted to smoking
materials. The pair were leaving the works for the ascent of the
mountain, when barks were heard, then a pattering of feet, and soon the
breathless Muggins jumped upon them with joyous demonstrations.
"Where has he been? How came we not to miss him?" asked the dominie, and
Coristine answered rather obliquely:--
"I don't remember seeing him since we entered Collingwood. Surely he
didn't go back to the Grinstun man."
"It is hard to be poetical on a dog called Muggins," remarked Wilkinson;
"Tray seems to be the favourite name. Cowper's dogs are different, and
Wordsworth has Dart and Swallow, Prince and Music, something like
Actaeon's dogs in 'Ovid.' Nevertheless, I like Muggins.
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