BUNKER 99 



horrible sharp smell. The remedy was much worse 

 than the disease, the pain of which soon eased off. 



Bunker came up with my brother Ned and me to 

 Kashmir and Suru. We went rather far afield, and 

 some bits of the marches were so bad he had to be 

 carried over dangerous places and up rickety short 

 ladders which made the path passable. He was 

 greatly interested in hunting marmots. We shot 

 a few for their skins, and he retrieved several 

 wounded ones from their holes. He would go down 

 their burrows into the depths of the earth, and I 

 have spent many anxious hours, on occasions, 

 sitting at the mouth of a burrow whistling and 

 calling, and hearing, when I put my ear down to the 

 hole, muffled, far-distant barks. Once or twice I 

 could hear, nothing, and thought that Bunker must 

 be buried for ever. But he always turned up in the 

 end, generally with a scratched face, tail foremost, 

 dragging a dead marmot after him. 



He had ideas of his own, for one day we were 

 preparing to start on a march, and Ned and I with 

 the shikaris and guns were going on ahead. We 

 soon found out there was no dog with us, which 

 was surprising, as when Bunker saw a gun he simply 

 must be with it. I went back and saw him sitting 

 calmly watching the servants pack the loads. I 

 called him, and he took not the slightest notice. I 

 went up to him, scolded him, and dragged him by 

 his collar a little way. Nothing would move him 

 but force. I reasoned with him. No, he was quite 

 determined he would not come. Then, as one must 

 have obedience in dogs, I looked about for a stick, 



