The dog heaved a deep sigh. He knew that his master was sad and he was a sort of æolian harp that always responded to his master’s moods with sympathetic chords.
“Pep,” said the doctor sternly, “sit down in my lap and listen. I want to talk to you. I am going away.”
The dog sat on his haunches in the man’s lap and listened intently, his head on one side as though to catch each word, a sad, wistful look on his face.
The doctor had sometimes used that tone to him before when he was going away to New York for several days. Then it had meant loneliness and dog heartache, so Pep was rightfully depressed.
“I’m going away, Pep. It is to the front. I am going where the wounded men come from and you must be a good dog and stay here and not run away. Do you understand? You must be a good dog.”
Pep knew the tone was that of reproof and admonishment, so he dropped his ears and looked very meek.
“The last time I left you, you ran away and made me lots of trouble. This time you must be good.”
The dog wagged his tail and whimpered. He would be good.
The doctor felt of his collar. It was very heavy and studded with brass rivets. “It’s strong enough,” he said. “You can’t break that.” Then he tried it to see if he could slip it over Pep’s head. It was rather loose, so for luck he took it up a hole. “There, now I’ll get a good strong chain and I guess you’ll be all right. Of course you’ll be lonesome and make a great fuss, but these are hard times for us all, and you will have to be a good soldier like the rest of us.”
Pep had seen the doctor try his collar before when he was to be tied up. His freedom was very dear to him. He loved to roam about the hospital. They were going to tie him up. He crawled up and licked his master’s face eagerly and pleaded in his dog way.