BUNKER 103 



the dog and the dog a yard or two away gazing 

 back. They did not quite know what to make of 

 each other. He lived with us for three days and 

 then, again at tea-time, Ned gave him an overdose 

 of cake, and he died in the night. Next day Ned 

 sat for a long time carving a memorial stone giving 

 a history of the hawk's death, and this was set up 

 over his grave. I wonder if it stands there still. 



Bunker had a happy life, I think. He and the 

 other dogs were very fond of coming out with us 

 riding, but small game shooting was the thing, par 

 excellence, in which he delighted. When he grew 

 older, he would refuse to go riding when the sun was 

 too hot for him; but when we went shooting and 

 rode out, he invariably came. I could not make 

 out how he understood whether it was just an 

 ordinary ride or a shoot that we were starting on 

 until I saw him go and smell my clothes, which were 

 laid out overnight. Long boots were no good, but 

 boots and putties or high-laced boots were all right ; 

 other details, too, in coats or skirts, were all known 

 to him. Then he grew wiser still and would trot 

 off with the shikari who went on long before dawn, 

 when it was beautifully cool, with the guns, and 

 Bunker would be sitting waiting for us when we 

 arrived. The other dogs never thought that out, 

 and would stay to run with us. Some of them 

 were rather wild occasionally, and did as much 

 harm as good, putting up many quail out of shot, 

 but there were always plenty more; and, on the 

 other hand, the dogs found us many birds lost in the 

 long grass that the coolies never would have found. 



