Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne sat in their cool matted verandah drinking early morning tea, and watching the malees splashing water over the plants from their primitive earthern chatties, and the syce cutting luscious green lucerne for the expectant horses. Their only companions were the fox-terriers, Sam and John, and any description of the Gascoigne ménage which omitted these gentlemen would be inadequate and incomplete. They were twins, and as unlike in appearance and disposition as it was possible to be. Sam was a remarkably handsome dog, exhibiting all the best points of his race. He had a black face, bright tan eyebrows, and silky white ears; his disposition was sporting, affectionate, easy-going, and game, but his intellect was not brilliant. On the other hand, his brother was endowed with the master mind; he planned, and Sam carried out. It was John's great brain that found means to extricate them when they got into nasty scrapes connected with breakages, pet rabbit-killing, and egg scandals. In the clever discovery of other dogs' bone stores in ferreting out useful short cuts and rare sport, John was prominently to the front. Sam was a determined hatter—and, alas, "catter"—of unwearying energy and speed, but not insensible to luxury, caresses, and praise. He liked to lie on a lady's lap—although he weighed twenty-one solid pounds of bone and muscle. He liked to be petted, and to have his throat scratched, and to repose in the middle of a soft down quilt (he being muddy or otherwise); but he was so handsome, and so insinuating, that his wishes were generally gratified.
Sam was a nice, simple, unaffected dog, and a general favourite. John was stout, well set on his legs, with no approach to style or pedigree; his head was too round, his nose too short—foolish people declared he had "a pretty face," and judges admitted that his cat-like paws were models. He abhorred all endearments and liberties—though to gain certain ends he could beg and give the paw. He was fond of music, and came and sat under the piano when Angel played, occasionally accompanying her in soft, melodious howls. He also sang—to the mandoline. He was a very duck in the water, which his brother loathed. He was shamelessly greedy, and Sam was an ascetic. John was immensely clever, and Sam was a fool. John was self-centred, impulsive, and irritable. Occasionally he and his twin fought for no apparent reason, almost to the death, and were only separated by being vigorously pumped on, or torn, as it were, asunder. They were always badly mauled and covered with blood; Sam was invariably the victor, and immediately set himself to lick his brother's wounds, who received this Samaritan-like attention with sullen toleration. On the sole occasion when John was the best dog he bore himself most unchivalrously, lorded it over his vanquished foe for twenty-four hours, and would not suffer him to come into the presence of their joint mistress, or to approach within six yards of his fat, vainglorious self.
But John had delivered his brother from the disagreeable consequences of murder and theft, secured him excellent sport, and on one occasion saved his life, returning home in the middle of the night, rousing the household by his terrific howls, and leading forth a rescue party to where Sam—ever the most enterprising—was smothering in a snake hole. The couple thoroughly appreciated camp life, and, no doubt, bragged prodigiously of their feats and escapades to other less lucky dogs whom they met at the band-stand or in the club compound. At the present moment they were shivering to be taken out. John sat on his hind legs, his gaze pathetically fixed on Gascoigne's last piece of toast, for his greed and presumption were unique. Sam divided his attention between driving sparrows out of the verandah—those vulgar street boys of the world—and keeping a sharp eye on his master's movements.
"I say," said Gascoigne, "these fellows have done themselves well in camp! John is actually bloated; he has the figure of an alderman." Angel laughed. "But I can't say as much for you," and he looked at her steadily.
He was thinking how soon India robs a girl of her good looks. Angel was white, her cheeks were hollow, her features had sharpened.
"I should hope not," she retorted; "surely you don't want me to have the figure of an alderman?"
"I should like to see a little flesh on your bones," and he reached over and took up her limp hand and wrist. "What have you been doing to yourself, Angel?"
"Nothing."
"And no one has done anything to you? What is it? You seem rather down on your luck."
"Then appearances are deceitful," she answered, dragging away her hand. "I—I"—Angel was unaccustomed to telling broad, flat-footed lies—at last she brought out—"enjoyed myself enormously."