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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.


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