The retriever said nothing, but licked his lips after
his meal and waddled off without so much as saying "Thank you" to
the disgusted dog-boy.
So that last meeting was over, and I felt as wretched as Garm,
who moaned in his sleep all night. When we went to the office he
found a place under the table close to Vixen, and dropped flat
till it was time to go home. There was no more running out into
the verandahs, no slinking away for stolen talks with Stanley. As
the weather grew warmer the dogs were forbidden to run beside the
cart, but sat at my side on the seat, Vixen with her head under
the crook of my left elbow, and Garm hugging the left handrail.
Here Vixen was ever in great form. She had to attend to all the
moving traffic, such as bullock-carts that blocked the way, and
camels, and led ponies; as well as to keep up her dignity when
she passed low friends running in the dust. She never yapped for
yapping's sake, but her shrill, high bark was known all along the
Mall, and other men's terriers ki-yied in reply, and
bullock-drivers looked over their shoulders and gave us the road
with a grin.
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