THE CAMP FIKE. 25 



they were long-eared, sad-looking hounds, with fierce 

 eyes. I had a couple ; one was a hound, and one a terrier. 

 The negroes had four or five; you could not tell pre- 

 cisely how many, for they would appear and disappear 

 like sprites, and sometimes one would be gone for a week 

 or more, and then come to light at the most unexpected 

 moment. The Doctor had one, and his name was Wag. 

 Now there were two ways of seeing this dog, and there- 

 fore two ways of describing it. If he should be regarded 

 through the Doctor's eyes, he was a Gelert in courage, 

 of the sagacity of a fox, and so graceful and beautiful, 

 and of such winning ways, that all the world loved him. 

 But any one else in speaking of him would have called 

 him a rusty, ragged, ill-tempered mongrel, with an elfish 

 disposition for mischief. He stole our food, 'he frightened 

 our game, he howled away our sleep, and whenever 

 he saw vengeance coming he slunk away to his master's 

 protection. He knew he did evil, and, with one eye 

 on his pursuer, and his tail wagging, he would stand 

 until standing was no longer safe, and then run for his 

 life. Why the Doctor loved that dog I never could 

 divine. He said he found him when a pup, and rescued 

 him from some boys who had a rope around his neck pre- 

 paratory to giving him a swing; if so, his humanity 

 brought sad discredit on the canine race. 



It is beyond the scope of my story to describe the toils 

 and successes of each day in the campaign which had 

 commenced that morning. Scenes of hourly interest to 

 the actor, and adventures which to the hunter and 



