NOTES FROM MY DIARY. 257 



E. W. Rice was with me once on a short Kashing trip. He was going to do great things, 

 and with that object had become owner of a poodle-spaniel at the high cost of $15. 

 The dog was guaranteed by his Portuguese master to do everything but talk, but what he 

 actually did do was not specially guaranteed. However he behaved very decently in the 

 open, though he did not seem to care very much for the covers. Well, Rice had seen what he 

 thought was a hare run into a small bush, and tried to get the dog to push Puss out. But 

 the dog did not seem to care for hares. Then came in stentorian tones the command "get in 

 good dog." But that was not sufficient inducement. In louder tones still the animal was 

 invited to "get in" as he came in contact with his new owner's boot. But no. As plainly 

 as he could show it the dog evidently did not like brambles. Rice then stamped and 

 jumped at him, and the dog retaliated by immediately sitting up chinchinning. The 

 more Rice raved the more strenuously did the dog chinchin, and as he neared the animal 

 the latter moved off a bit, chinchinning more vigorously than ever. The end of it was that 

 the dog scored. He did chinchin. He did not go into cover. When Rice returned to 

 Shanghai he returned the dog and told the owner to give the $15 he had received for it to 

 some charity. But it was too late. The money had been already spent on that charity which 



begins at home. 



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It was during the coffee boom in the Malay States. The brothers Thurburn, one the 

 manager of the Chartered Mercantile Bank, and the other a well-known share broker, had 

 struck oil, and went up-country to have a good time. They bought new guns, new gear and 

 to complete the equipment yet required a new dog. After casting about some little time 

 and inspecting a crowd of animals, all excellent as the would-be sellers said, they fixed 

 upon what the owner was pleased to call a working retriever. All being ready off they 

 went, and Daly and I picked them up a week later at Pejow where we came across them 

 talking coffee in a sylvan shade because there was nothing to shoot so they said. That 

 there was something to kill they soon discovered when they saw our coolies with about 10 

 brace of pheasants and a few extras. So they had another try. But it appears that the dog 

 did not come up to expectations, consequently a shot was sent at him to brace him up. The 

 "working retriever" hastened in consequence to the nearest cover, a thick reed bed and was 

 soon lost to view. A couple of hours were spent in shouting and whistling, and in getting 

 countrymen to look for the truant, but with no success. When they reached their boat there 

 was the dog as far back in the forehold as he could get. Nothing would induce him to come 

 out. For two days the animal held the fort, and when we again came across the guns on the 

 third day we were invited to lend a hand to get the beast out. I suggested washing him out 

 and soon a couple of coolies with buckets were deluging the dog's stronghold. Unable to 

 stand it any longer the dog made a bolt, rushed through the city gate of Pejow, and the 

 enterprise was abandoned. If I remember correctly this costly trip resulted in a bag of two 



head. 



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Here is a singular instance of canine fatality. We were a party of four, P. McGregor 

 Grant, Robilliard, manager of the Mercantile Bank, and Burns, manager of the Oriental Bank ; 

 and spent a couple of days at Mootoo. We had a curious assortment of dogs. Grant a 

 Scotch terrier, Robilliard a Maltese poodle, Burns a white bull terrier, and I a red setter and 



