This consisted of a hopeless endeavor to make a lame dog dance.

The animal in question was no other than 'Becca Rudd's Dash, a piece of nomenclature which can only be described as the wildest and most satirical misnomer.

Liza had not been too severe on Dash's physical infirmities when she described him as lame on one of his hind legs, for both those members were so effectually out of joint as to render locomotion of the simplest kind a difficulty attended by violent oscillation.

This was probably the circumstance that had recommended Dash as the object of Robbie's half-drunken pastime; and after a fruitless half-hour's exercise the tractable little creature, with a woeful expression of face, was at length poised on its hindmost parts just as Liza pushed open the door and called to its instructor.
The new arrival interrupted the course of tuition, and Dash availed himself of his opportunity to resume the normal functions of his front paws.

At this the reclining tutor looked up from his place on the floor with a countenance more of sorrow than of anger, and said, in a tone that told how deeply he was grieved, "_There_, lass, see how you've spoilt it!" "Get up, you daft-head! Whatever are you mufflin' about, you silly one, lying down there with the dogs and the fleas ?" Liza still stood in the doorway with an august severity of pose that would have befitted Cassandra at the porch.