cloth--not the man. He would leap at him, and sniff and bark
joyously, then run to the door and back again. One afternoon I heard
him bay with a full throat--a thing I had never heard before--and he
disappeared. When I drove into my garden at the end of the day a soldier
in white uniform scrambled over the wall at the far end, and the Garm
that met me was a joyous dog. This happened twice or thrice a week for a
month.

I pretended not to notice, but Garm knew and Vixen knew. He would glide
homewards from the office about four o'clock, as though he were only
going to look at the scenery, and this he did so quietly that but for
Vixen I should not have noticed him. The jealous little dog under
the table would give a sniff and a snort, just loud enough to call my
attention to the flight. Garm might go out forty times in the day and
Vixen would never stir, but when he slunk off to see his true master in
my garden she told me in her own tongue. That was the one sign she made
to prove that Garm did not altogether belong to the family. They were
the best of friends at all times, but, Vixen explained that I was never
to forget Garm did not love me as she loved me.

I never expected it. The dog was not my dog could never be my dog--and I
knew he was as miserable as his master who tramped eight miles a day to
see him. So it seemed to me that the sooner the two were reunited the
better for all. One afternoon I sent Vixen home alone in the dog-cart
(Garm had gone before), and rode over to cantonments to find another
friend of mine, who was an Irish soldier and a great friend of the dog's
master.

I explained the whole case, and wound up with:

"And now Stanley's in my garden crying over his dog. Why doesn't he take
him back? They're both unhappy."

"Unhappy! There's no sense in the little man any more. But 'tis his
fit."

"What is his fit? He travels fifty miles a week to see the brute, and
he pretends not to notice me when he sees me on the road; and I'm as
unhappy as he is. Make him take the dog back."

"It's his penance he's set himself. I told him by way of a joke, afther
you'd run over him so convenient that night, whin he was drunk--I said
if he was a Catholic he'd do penance. Off he went wid that fit in his
little head an' a dose of fever, an nothin' would suit but givin' you
the dog as a hostage."

"Hostage for what? I don't want hostages from Stanley."

"For his good behaviour. He's keepin' straight now, the way