His Master Looked
So Black At This That We Said No More About It.
But Jack was
a wonderfully tough dog, all gristle I think, and after three
days of lying there like a dead dog he quickly recovered,
though I'm quite sure that if his injuries had been
distributed among any half-dozen pampered or pet dogs it would
have killed them all.
A morning came when the kennel was
empty: Jack was not dead - he was well again, and, as usual,
out.
Just then I was absent for a week or ten days then, back
again, I went out one fine morning for a long day's ramble
along the coast. A mile or so from home, happening to glance
back I caught sight of a black dog's face among the bushes
thirty or forty yards away gazing earnestly at me. It was
Jack, of course, nothing but his head visible in an opening
among the bushes - a black head which looked as if carved in
ebony, in a wonderful setting of shining yellow furze
blossoms. The beauty and singularity of the sight made it
impossible for me to be angry with him, though there's nothing
a man more resents than being shadowed, or secretly followed
and spied upon, even by a dog, so, without considering what I
was letting myself in for, I cried out "Jack" and instantly he
bounded out and came to my side, then flew on ahead, well
pleased to lead the way.
"I must suffer him this time," I said resignedly, and went on,
he always ahead acting as my scout and hunter - self-appointed,
of course, but as I had not ordered him back in trumpet tones
and hurled a rock at him to enforce the command, he took it
that he was appointed by me.
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