moves a man who daily takes his chance of life and 

 death man whose " breath is in his nostrils " to 

 lay his cheek against the muzzle of his comrade dog, 

 and in the trackless miles of wilderness feel he has a 

 friend. Something to hold to ; something to protect. 



There was old Blake " mad, quite mad," as every- 

 body knew of whom they vaguely said that horses, 

 hounds, coaches, covers, and all that goes with old 

 estates, were his once. We knew him poor and 

 middle-aged. How old to us ! Cheery and un- 

 practical, with two old pointers and a fowling-piece, 

 and a heart as warm as toast. We did not ask each 

 other's business there ; and, judging by the dogs 

 and gun, we put him down as a ' remittance man.' 

 But that, it seems, was wrong. They were his all. 



He left no letters a little pile of paper ash ; no 

 money and no food ! That was his pride. He 

 would not sell or give away his dogs ! That was his 

 love. When he could not keep them it seemed time 

 to go ! That was his madness. But before he went, 

 remembering a friend in hospital, he borrowed two 

 cartridges and brought him in a brace of birds. 

 That was old mad Blake, who ( moved on ' and took 

 his dogs with him, because they had always been 

 together, and he could not leave their fate to chance. 

 So we buried him with one on either side, just as he 

 would have liked it ! 



There was Turner, who shot the crocodile that 

 seized his dog, and reckless of the others, swam in 

 and brought the dog to land. 



