But Garm cared for none of these things. His big eyes were on the
horizon and his terrible mouth was shut. There was another dog in
the office who belonged to my chief. We called him "Bob the
Librarian," because he always imagined vain rats behind the
bookshelves, and in hunting for them would drag out half the old
newspaper-files. Bob was a well-meaning idiot, but Garm did not
encourage him. He would slide his head round the door panting,
"Rats! Come along Garm!" and Garm would shift one forepaw over
the other, and curl himself round, leaving Bob to whine at a most
uninterested back. The office was nearly as cheerful as a tomb in
those days.
Once, and only once, did I see Garm at all contented with his
surroundings. He had gone for an unauthorised walk with Vixen
early one Sunday morning, and a very young and foolish
artilleryman (his battery had just moved to that part of the
world) tried to steal them both. Vixen, of course, knew better
than to take food from soldiers, and, besides, she had just
finished her breakfast.
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