“But what shall I do with my dog?” pleaded the doctor, though he saw that Pep’s case was hopeless.
“Hurry, I tell you. It’s no time to be haggling about the life of a dog. Get in or I will give the signal for the boat to pull off.”
“All right,” said the doctor. “Give it. I can’t leave Pep.”
“Here, here, doctor,” growled a stern visaged colonel coming up behind them. “You are under military orders. Get into that boat. Give the dog to me.” He snatched the growling dog from his master’s arms and threw him upon the deck and then fairly shoved the doctor over the rail and down into the boat.
The doctor heard a dismal howl from Pep as he was left behind and then he felt the boat lowering towards the water.
“Officer,” he called to the man at the rail, “Shoot the dog. I can’t leave him in that way.” But instead of shooting him, the officer kicked at Pep who was trying desperately to climb over the rail.
The doctor sat huddled in the corner of the lifeboat, his head in his hands as they pulled away from the ship.
It seemed strange to the other passengers that with death all around them a strong man should feel so deeply the loss of a dog, but only dog lovers understand these things. No one but a dog lover knows the comfort of that soft tongue on your cheek, or the muzzle in your hand.
Presently the doctor was aroused from his grief by a wild yelp. He looked back towards the ship and in the darkness he could just see Pep balancing himself on the rail, and a second later he sprang into the sea.
At the sight, hope welled up in the physician’s heart. If it was not more than five miles to the shore, perhaps the dog could swim. Soon the white head appeared close to the boat and the dog whimpered to be taken aboard, but his master could not even do that much for him. The law of the ship was like the laws of the Persians, irrevocable, but he talked to Pep and encouraged him as he swam behind.