"What kind of animal is Bullen Sahib's dog? Look at him!"

I went to the boy's hut, and the fat old reprobate was lying on a
mat carefully chained up. He must have heard his master calling
for twenty minutes, but had not even attempted to join him.

"He has no face," said the dog-boy scornfully. "He is a
punniar-kooter (a spaniel). He never tried to get that cloth off
his jaws when his master called. Now Vixen-baba would have jumped
through the window, and that Great Dog would have slain me with
his muzzled mouth. It is true that there are many kinds of dogs."

Next evening who should turn up but Stanley. The officer had sent
him back fourteen miles by rail with a note begging me to return
the retriever if I had found him, and, if I had not, to offer
huge rewards. The last train to camp left at half-past ten, and
Stanley, stayed till ten talking to Garm. I argued and entreated,
and even threatened to shoot the bull-terrier, bat the little man
was as firm as a rock, though I gave him a good dinner and talked
to him most severely. Garm knew as well as I that this was the
last time he could hope to see his man, and followed Stanley like
a shadow. The retriever said nothing, but licked his lips after
his meal and waddled off without so much as saying "Thank you" to
the disgusted dog-boy.

So that last meeting was over, and I felt as wretched as Garm,
who moaned in his sleep all night. When we went to the office he
found a place under the table close to Vixen, and dropped flat
till it was time to go home. There was no more running out into