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I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say, "Poor doggie do give it up and come home; don't break our hearts!" and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something has happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet any more.
"Why, Chip, old doggie!" cried Dick, as, snorting and panting with the water he splashed into his nostrils, the dog came aside, and after being lifted into the boat gave himself a shake, and then thrust his nose into every hand in turn. "This is something like a dog, Mr Marston!" continued Dick. "Yes; but he would behave just the same as the other," said the engineer. "Here's Dave," said Dick.
"Pompey," said I, one afternoon, while reclining on the sofa in Dobson's drawing-room, my leg being not yet sufficiently restored to admit of my going out "Pompey, I've got news for you." To my surprise my doggie would not answer to that name at all when I used it, though he did so when it was used by Miss Blythe. "Dumps!" I said, in a somewhat injured tone. Ears and tail at once replied.
The lane, into which he had stumbled the night before, ran under an archway supporting some kind of overhead chamber, and separated the dwelling-house from a warehouse wall on which vast letters proclaimed the fact that Veuve Morin et Fils carried on therein the business of hay and corn dealers. Hence, Doggie reflected, the fresh, deep straw on which he and his fortunate comrades had wallowed.
"You're talking through your hat, Marmaduke," she exclaimed with some irritation. "Oliver's a straight, clean, English soldier." "I've been doing my best to tell you so," said Doggie. "But you seem to be criticizing him because he's concealing something behind what you call his panache." "Not criticizing, dear. Only stating. I think I'm more Oliverian than you."
It had seemed so simple to account for half an hour's absence by saying that he had lost his way in the dark. But now, that plausible excuse was invalid.... Doggie thought terribly hard that quiet, sea-scented morning. After all, it did not very much matter what they did to him. Sticking him up against a wall and shooting him was a remote possibility; he was in the British and not the German Army.
"All right, Peddle, I can find my way about," said Doggie, dismissing the old butler and his wife after a little colloquy in the hall. "Everything's in perfect order, sir, just as it was when you left; and there are the keys," said Mrs. Peddle. The Peddles retired. Doggie eyed the heavy bunch of keys with an air of distaste. For two years he had not seen a key.
In this dilemma he resolved to tie up the said muzzle, and the legs also, even at the risk of causing death. It would not take more than a minute to draw a tumblerful, and any dog worth a straw could hold his wind for a minute. He would try. He did try, and was yet in the act of drawing the beer when my doggie burst his bonds by a frantic effort to be free.
Doggie, in spite of the silk pyjamas and the soft bed and the blazing fire in his room he stripped back the light-excluding curtains forgetful of Defence of the Realm Acts, and opened all the windows wide, to the horror of Peddle in the morning slept like an unperturbed dormouse. When Peddle woke him, he lay drowsily while the old butler filled his bath and fiddled about with drawers.
It is just one endless day." "One awful, endless day," Doggie acquiesced with a smile. "But I was saying I've had a year, or an endless day of eleven months, in which to learn myself. And what I don't know about myself isn't knowledge." Peggy interrupted with a laugh. "You must be a wonder. Dad's always preaching about self-knowledge. Tell me all about it."
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