228 
IN AFRICA 
Ali and J. T. Jr. surrounded by the affable Little 
Wanderobo Dog. 
It is little wonder that friendship soon ripened 
into love, and that we all became speedily and ir¬ 
revocably attached to the little swamp angel. His 
presence in any gathering was like a benediction of 
good cheer, and when his tail was in full swing he 
looked like a golden jubilee. As I say, it was no 
wonder we liked him, and I think I may also say, 
without flattering ourselves, that the sentiment was 
reciprocated. I don’t believe the joy he showed at 
all times could have been assumed. It must have 
been pure joy, without alloy. 
His table manners were above reproach. He 
would never grab or show unseemly greed. He 
awaited our pleasure and each bone or chop that fell 
his way was received with every token of mute but 
eloquent gratitude. You were constantly made to 
feel that he loved you for yourself and not for what 
he hoped you would give him. If I were to be 
wrecked on a desert island, I believe there is hardly 
more than one person that I’d prefer to have as my 
sole companion than Little Wanderobo Dog. 
Perhaps a few words about the architecture of 
the little dog might not come amiss. He was built 
somewhat on the lines of the German renaissance, 
being low and rakish like a dachshund, but with just 
a little more freeboard than the dachshund. His 
legs were straight instead of bowed, as are those of 
his distinguished German cousin. His ears were 
hardly as pendulous, being rather more trenchant 
