the gun-trail like an indiarubber ball, in an ecstasy of expectation.  When the great gun boomed he shrieked with joy and shot away up the gully looking for the rabbit.  The poor little dog’s hunt up and down the gully for the rabbit that never had been was one of the most pathetic sights I ever saw.  That so many big men with such an enormous gun should miss the rabbit every time was gradually killing him with disgust and exasperation.

Meeting my groom one evening I spoke of the matter to him, casually mentioning that there was a small countryman of ours close at hand breaking his heart because there never was any rabbit.  I clearly explained to my groom that I was suggesting nothing, dropping no hints, but I thought it a pity such a sportsman should waste his talents with those sea-soldiers when there were outfits like ours about, offering all kinds of opportunities to one of the right sort.  I again repeated that I was making no suggestions and passed on to some other subject.

Imagine my astonishment when, on making our customary bi-weekly trek next day, I discovered the small terrier secured to our tool-limber by a piece of baling-wire, evidently enjoying the trip and abusing the limber-mules as if he had known them all his life.  Since he had insisted on coming with us there was nothing further to be said, so we christened him “The O’Murphy,” attached him to the strength for rations and discipline, and for two years he has shared our joys and sorrows, our billets and bully-beef, up and down the land of Somewheres.

But it was with our Albert Edward he got particularly chummy.  They had the same dislike of felines and the same taste in biscuits.  Thus when Albert Edward rode by, ears drooping, tail tucked in (so to speak), en route to the shambles, The O’Murphy saw clearly that here was the time to prove his friendship, and trotted along behind.  On arriving at H.Q. the comrades shook paws and licked each other good-bye.  Then Albert Edward stumbled within and The O’Murphy hung about outside saucing the brass-collared Staff dogs and waiting to gather up what fragments remained of his chum’s body after the General had done with it.  His interview with the General our Albert Edward prefers not to describe; it was too painful, too humiliating, he says.  That a man of the General’s high position, advanced age and venerable appearance could lose his self-control to such a degree was a terrible revelation to Albert Edward.  “Let us draw a veil over that episode,” he said.

But what happened later on he did consent to tell us.  When the General had burst all his blood vessels, and Albert Edward was congratulating himself that the worst was over, the old man suddenly grabbed a Manual of Military Law off his desk, hurled it into a corner and dived under a table, whence issued scuffling sounds, grunts and squeals.  “See that?” came the voice of the General from under the table.  “Of all confounded impudence!—­did you see that?”