d
full. But what troubled him most was the tramping, the long dusty
stages afoot in country where the unsociable villages lay remote from
each other, and the roads were hot and long. A man can outwalk any
other animal. After thirty miles, a horse is nowhere and the man is
still going, but even fifteen miles leaves the ordinary dog limp and
sorry. And then, when every bone in him was aching, a wretched
village might poke up at an elbow of the way, and there would be
dancing to do and his whole fatuous repertoire to accomplish, while
his legs were soft under him with weariness.

Trotter took his heavy boots off; he threw one at Bill.

It was a pleasant spot. Where they sat, in a bay of shade, they could
see a far reach of rich land, bright in the sunshine and dotted with
wood, stretching back to where the high shoulder of the downs shut
out the sea.

The two men ate in much contentment, passing the bottle to and fro.

Bill waited for them to have done and fling him his share. In common
with all Bohemians, he liked regular meals.

"That dog's goin' silly," said Trotter, looking at him where he lay.

"Oh, him!" said the Signor.

"He's bin loafin' a furlong be'ind all the mornin'," said Trotter.
"Yer know if he was to get lazy, it 'ud be a poor lookout for us.
He's bin spoilt, that dog 'as spoilt with indulgence. Soon as we stop
for a spell oh, he plops down on 'is belly and 'angs on for us to
chuck 'im a bit of grub. Might be a man by the ways of 'im, 'stead of
a dog. Now I don't 'old with spoilin' dogs."

"Pass da beer," requested the Signor.

Bill looked up with concern, for Trotter was filling his pipe; the
meal was at an end.

"Yus, yer can look," snarled Trotter. "You'll wait, you will."

He began to pack up the bread and meat again in the towel where it
belonged.

"Think you've got yer rights, don't yer?" he growled, as he swept the
fragments together. "No dog comes them games on me. Hey, get out, ye
brute!"

Bill had walked over and was now helping himself to the food that lay
between Trotter's very hands.

Trotter clenched a bulging red fist and hauled off to knock him away.
But Bill had some remainder of the skill, as well as the ferocity, of
the fighting dog in him. He snapped sideways in a purposeful silence,
met the swinging fist adroitly, and sank his fine teeth cruelly in
the fat wrist.

"Hey! Signor, Signor!" howled Trotter. "Kick 'im orf, can't yer! Ow,
o-o-ow!"

Bill let him go as the