Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/601

Of course I still believe in him; I always shall; I can't help it; I'm his dog. But I must say that I find him lately just a little hard to understand. Other dogs' masters go out by themselves every day―leaving their dogs to amuse themselves as best they can. But my Master―ah! he was different. We were inseparable; roaming the country in the spring and summer; rowing on the river or loafing in the garden―Master trying to "brace himself for work," which he generally started by electric light about my bedtime. And in the winter we dozed together in the studio; or I stole chestnuts off the stove whilst Master smoked and whistled and forgot them. It was a perfect life. He called it "drawing for Punch." And then, about two months ago, he suddenly went wrong...

He came into the hall at lunch-time, after one of his rare visits to the City without me; said he'd got no further use for bowler hats, so stuck his on my head, and from inside it I heard him declaring how they'd "taken him at last―barnacles and all." The rest of that day he did nothing but talk about the "Linseed Lancers." I thought he might recover in the night, but the next day he went off to town again and came back dressed in four different shades of yellow and a puppy's drinking basin upon his head.

The third day, after a rather elaborate farewell, he again deserted me, and didn't come back. I waited for him at his bedroom door, knowing his ways of life and notions of bedtime. Later, I searched his studio―and the family gave me talk I couldn't understand. Two days, three days, still no Master. Then I went out to look for him.

It was late in the evening at the "Foaming Bowl" (a sort of lending library Master used to call at) that I was recognised and taken home; but black-and-tan terriers don't give in easily.

The family was very nice and sympathetic, so I wagged my tail to show them that I'd find him yet, and, O rats the very next day there was Master, back view, four shades of yellow and puppy's drinking basin all complete, walking ahead of me. I dashed after him, and landed in the old way, with my two front paws bang in the middle of his back. But it wasn't Master; and not even when I once sat upon a pen-and-ink sketch (wet) had I been called such names before. But still we don't give in, we black-and-tans. It didn't take me long to tumble to the fact that any one of yellow-brown suits walking the streets might possibly conceal my Master. I had to search them all.

The family got quite stuffy when I was brought home every night_by a different policeman. But still I persevered; until one day I suddenly encountered rows and rows of possible Masters marching down the High Street. I don't remember just how many I examined, but I do know that by the time the band was rearranged and the trams were able to go on again I had decided to give up looking for Master, and stay at home and wait.

*****

He came back. He comes back every other week now for an hour or so. Says he's a "terrier" himself and that I ought to be the Regimental Pet. But I'm afraid the post must be already filled, for I heard Master tell a man the other day that the R.A.M.C. Regimental Pet was a leech, specially trained to crawl at the head of the band, and salute by rearing up on its tail.

I wish that leech would get distemper.

"U29 sunk by H.M. ship———intimated sunk by Mr. Balfour June 9."―Glasgow News.

The new First Lord has quickly justified his appointment. Even Mr. Churchill never equalled this performance.