The Fellowship of Dogs 39 



When the cabman was assisting Sailor 

 down stairs and into the cab, the doctor 

 gravely whispered: 



"I'm sorry to tell you, sir, but your dog 

 can't live long. He has a tumor developing 

 in the groin which will kill him within a year 

 or two. He can hunt all right up to the day 

 it strikes a vital organ and then he will go." 



He seemed so happy, with his head out the 

 cab window sniffing contemptuously at the 

 poor little chained and collared dogs he saw 

 on the streets! Now and then he would lick 

 my hand with a grateful dog kiss for what I 

 had done for him and for the joy of home 

 that was in his soul. How could I tell him 

 the fatal secret that Death had already laid 

 his hand on his silken hair and claimed him 

 as his own? 



A little while longer we would smell the 

 fields together and our hearts thrill with the 

 joy of the chase, and he would go. I won- 

 dered where! And my heart was heavy. 



