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So she trotted back with a large piece of
the mutton that they issue to our troops, laid it down on my
verandah, and looked up to see what I thought. I asked her where
Garin was, and she ran in front of the horse to show me the way.
About a mile up the road we came across our artilleryman sitting
very stiffly on the edge of a culvert with a greasy handkerchief
on his knees. Garin was in front of him, looking rather pleased.
When the man moved leg or hand, Garin bared his teeth in silence.
A broken string hung from his collar, and the other half of, it
lay, all warm, in the artilleryman's still hand. He explained to
me, keeping his eyes straight in front of him, that he had met
this dog (he called him awful names) walking alone, and was going
to take him to the Fort to be killed for a masterless pariah.
I said that Garin did not seem to me much of a pariah, but that
he had better take him to the Fort if he thought best. He said he
did not care to do so. I told him to go to the Fort alone.


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