62 STRAY-AWAYS 



When I returned, the Dog from Doone was under 

 the bed. It was not easy to lure him forth, even 

 though his wolfish eyes devoured the cold hash from 

 afar. He yielded at length, and drove his muzzle 

 deep into it, and snatched it in gulps, with his teeth 

 clashing on the china, looking over his shoulder for 

 the pursuer at every moment. He had the bread 

 and milk too, and when it was finished he was visibly 

 recovering his belief in human nature. He was a 

 young dog, from his fresh teeth and pink gums, and 

 the blue-white of his eye, that showed as he watched 

 every movement of my hand. He made up his mind 

 at length, and came to me, and put his paws on my 

 knee. He smelt of the woods, and the mud was 

 caked in his hair, and he told me in his own way 

 how frightened he had been, and how they tried to 

 drown him, and how he 'only stole because he was half- 

 starved (a statement which I only partly accepted). 

 I made a treaty of peace with him, and he understood 

 it all. 



Wliat I was going to say about him to the authori- 

 ties I did not know; in the meantime I made a bed 

 for him with my rug, and he accepted it, and looked 

 me in the face as man to man. A bed, recognised 

 and ordained, means to a dog the Franchise and the 

 Old Age Pension all in one. 



At this point I feel it to be due to myself to mention 

 that I had had only one whisky and soda at Bridge, 

 and none after it. I merely state that before I had 

 got my waistcoat off the Dog from Doone arose in 

 his bed, with his hackles up and his eyes staring. He 

 did not growl, he only stared, at the window, as it 

 seemed to me. He left his bed, and advanced very 

 slowly in the same direction, and uttered a strange 

 and dismal bark. 



It was a quiet night, the quietest for a week, and 



