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Page 33
"Oh, didn't you take him away?"
"I couldn't, my dear. And you must not think, Maggie, that if Turks do
not pet dogs they are cruel to them. It is not the case. A Turk would
never dream of petting a dog, but if he saw one looking hot and thirsty
in the street he would be more likely to take trouble to get it a dish
of water than many English people who feed their own particular pets on
mutton-chops. Jack was not likely to be ill-treated after our departure,
but I sometimes have a heart-sore suspicion that we may have raised
dreams in his doggish heart never again to be realized. If he were at
all like other dogs (and the more we knew of him the more companionable
he became), he must have waited many a long hour in patient faithfulness
at our deserted threshold. He must have felt his own importance as a dog
with a name, in that wild and nameless tribe to which he belonged. He
must have dreamed of his foreign friends on many a blazing summer's
afternoon. Perhaps he stole cautiously into other Quarters to look for
us. I hope he did not venture too far--Maggie--my dear Maggie! You are
not fretting about poor Jack? I assure you that really the most probable
thing is that our successors made friends with him."
"Do you really and truly think so, Cousin Peregrine?"
"On my word of honour I do, Maggie. You must remember that Jack was not
a Stamboul dog. He belonged to Pera, where Europeans live, so there is a
strong probability that his unusual tameness and beauty won other
friends for him when we had gone."
"I hope somebody very nice lived in your house when you went away."
"I hope so, Maggie."
"Cousin Peregrine, do you think we could teach Ponto to know his own
quarter?"
"I think you could, Fred. I once lived next door to a man who was very
fond of his garden. It was a mere strip in front of his hut--for we were
quartered in camp at this time--and not even a paling separated it from
a similar strip in front of my quarters. My bit, I regret to say, was
not like his in any respect but shape. I had a rather ragged bit of
turf, and he had a glowing mass of flowers. The monotony of my
grass-plat was only broken by the marrow-bones and beef-ribs which my
dog first picked and then played with under my windows. I was as fond of
him as my brother-officer was of his flowers. I am sorry to say that
Dash had a fancy for the gayer garden, and for some time my
good-tempered neighbour bore patiently with his inroads, and with a sigh
buried the beef-bone that Dash had picked among the mignonette at the
roots of a magnificent rose which he often alluded to as 'John Hopper,'
and seemed to treat as a friend. Mr. Hopper certainly throve on Dash's
bones, but unfortunately Dash took to applying them himself to the roots
of plants for which I believe that bone manure is not recommended. When
he made a hole two foot deep in the Nemophila bed, and laid a sheep's
head by in it against a rainy day, I felt that something must be done.
After the humblest apologies to my neighbour, I begged for a few days'
grace. He could not have spoken more feelingly of the form, scent, and
colour of his friend John Hopper than I ventured to do in favour of the
intelligence of my friend Dash. In short I begged for a week's patience
on his part, that I might teach Dash to know his own garden. If I failed
to do so, I promised to put him on the chain, much as I dislike tying up
dogs."
"How did you manage, Cousin?"
"Whenever Dash strayed into the next garden, I began to scold him in the
plainest English, and covered him with reproaches, till he slunk
gradually back to his own untidy grass-plat. When he touched his own
grounds, I changed my tone at once, to approbation. At first this change
simply brought him flying to my feet again, if I was standing with my
friend in his garden. But after a plentiful application of, 'How dare
you, Sir? Go back' (pointing), 'go back to your garden. If this
gentleman catches you here again, he'll grind your bones to make John
Hopper's bread. That's a good dog. No! Down! Stay where you are!'--Dash
began to understand. It took many a wistful gaze of his brown eyes
before he fully comprehended what I meant, but he learned it at last. He
never put paw into Major E----'s garden without looking thoroughly
ashamed of himself. He would lie on his own ragged lawn and wistfully
watch me sitting and smoking among the roses; but when I returned to our
own quarters he welcomed me with an extravagant delight which seemed to
congratulate me on my escape from the enemy's country."
"Oh, Cousin Peregrine! We must try and teach Ponto to know his own
garden."
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