s the high stretches of the plateau.
So he ingratiated himself into my tent with many friendly wags of his
tail and a countenance of such benign faith in human nature that he was
allowed to remain. At many times in the night I was awakened and I knew
that Little Wanderobo Dog was dreaming about some wicked swamp ogre that
was trying to kick him.

At first he was not a silent sleeper, but later on these awful
nightmares came with less frequency and I presume his dreams took on a
more beatific character. As a watch-dog I don't believe he had great
value, because of his readiness to make friends with anything and
anybody. If a leopard had come into the tent he would have said, "Excuse
me, but I think you are in the wrong place," but he would never have
barked or conducted himself in an ungentlemanly way.

One could never tell what was likely to come into one's tent at night,
even with armed askaris patrolling the camp all night long. One cold
night, before Little Wanderobo Dog had come to live with us, I was
awakened by a curious rustle of the tent flaps. I listened and then
watched the tent flap for some moments, thinking that the wind might
have been responsible. But there was no wind and it seemed beyond doubt
that some animal had entered.

For a long time I listened, but could hear nothing; and yet at the same
time I had a positive conviction that I was not alone in the tent. I
wondered if it could be a leopard, or some small member of the cat
tribe. I knew that it wasn't a dog, for there were no dogs anywhere in
the vicinity of the camp. As the minutes went by without any hostile
move from the darkness, I decided to let whatever it was stay until it
got ready to depart. So I went to sleep.

Once more in the night I was awakened by a noise in the tent and as
nearly as I could diagnose the situation, the noise came from under my
cot. But, I reasoned, if the animal is there, it's behaving itself and
if it were on mischief bent it would have transacted its business long
before. So I went to sleep again.

Just at dawn the clarion crow of a rooster came from under my bed. It
was one of the roosters the cook had bought from a Boer settler and had
come in to escape the coldness of the night air without. It was a most
agreeable surprise, for there was a homelike sound in the crow of the
rooster that was pleasantly reminiscent of the banks of the Wabash far
away.

After Little Wanderobo Dog became "acclimated" to the war