. He had more charm than anything
I've ever met, and so it is only natural that he should have walked into
our affections in the most natural, unaffected sort of way.

I don't know what he thought of us, but I really believe that he thought
he had gone to Heaven. We fed him and played with him, and finally he
gained a little assurance, and actually barked. He barked at one of our
roosters, and then we knew that he considered himself past the probation
stage. He had confidence enough to assert himself in a series of lusty
barks without fearing a hostile boot or an angry shout. The first time
he barked we all rushed out of our tents in wonder and admiration. It
was the most important event of the day, and it caused a great deal of
talk of a friendly nature.

There was one umbrageous cloud on Little Wanderobo Dog's horizon,
however--a cloud that he soon learned to evade. The Mohammedans didn't
like him. It is a part of their creed to hate dogs almost as much as
pork, and to be touched by a dog means many prayers to Allah to wipe
away the stain of contact. But Little Wanderobo Dog was not conversant
with the Mohammedan creed at first, and in his gladness and joy of life
he embraced everybody in the waves of affection and friendliness that
radiated from him like a golden aura.

The Somali gunbearers were disciples of Allah, and they began to kick at
him before he was within eight feet of them. Two of the tent boys were
also Mohammedans, but they had to be more circumspect in their
hostility. Whenever Little Wanderobo Dog came around they would edge
away, which gave the former a certain sense of importance because it was
flattering to have a number of grown-up men fear him so much. Then there
were a number of the porters who were Mohammedans of a sort, but these
were wont to say, "O, what is a creed among friends?"

It was quite cold up on the plateau at night. Sometimes the wind swept
down from the distant fringe of mountains and shook the tents until the
tent pegs jumped out of the ground. The night guard would pile more wood
on the big central camp-fire near our tents and the porters, in their
eighteen or twenty little tents, would huddle closer together for
warmth. They were nights for at least three blankets, and even four were
not too many.

Consequently Little Wanderobo Dog was confronted by the necessity of
adopting a place to sleep where he would be safe from those sharp arrows
of the north wind that swept acros