it's no
pleasure to associate wid him."

"Has he taken the pledge?"

"If 'twas only that I need not care. Ye can take the pledge for three
months on an' off. He sez he'll never see the dog again, an' so mark
you, he'll keep straight for evermore. Ye know his fits? Well, this is
wan of them. How's the dog takin' it?"

"Like a man. He's the best dog in India. Can't you make Stanley take him
back?"

"I can do no more than I have done. But ye know his fits. He's just
doin' his penance. What will he do when he goes to the Hills? The
doctor's put him on the list."

It is the custom in India to send a certain number of invalids from each
regiment up to stations in the Himalayas for the hot weather; and though
the men ought to enjoy the cool and the comfort, they miss the society
of the barracks down below, and do their best to come back or to avoid
going. I felt that this move would bring matters to a head, so I left
Terrence hopefully, though he called after me "He won't take the dog,
sorr. You can lay your month's pay on that. Ye know his fits."

I never pretended to understand Private Ortheris; and so I did the next
best thing I left him alone.

That summer the invalids of the regiment to which my friend belonged
were ordered off to the Hills early, because the doctors thought
marching in the cool of the day would do them good. Their route lay
south to a place called Umballa, a hundred and twenty miles or more.
Then they would turn east and march up into the hills to Kasauli or
Dugshai or Subathoo. I dined with the officers the night before they
left--they were marching at five in the morning. It was midnight when I
drove into my garden, and surprised a white figure flying over the wall.

"That man," said my butler, "has been here since nine, making talk to
that dog. He is quite mad."

"I did not tell him to go away because he has been here many times
before, and because the dog-boy told me that if I told him to go away,
that great dog would immediately slay me. He did not wish to speak to
the Protector of the Poor, and he did not ask for anything to eat or
drink."

"Kadir Buksh," said I, "that was well done, for the dog would surely
have killed thee. But I do not think the white soldier will come any
more."

Garm slept ill that night and whimpered in his dreams. Once he sprang up
with a clear, ringing bark, and I heard him wag his tail till it waked
him and the bark died out in a howl. He had dreamed he was