"Vieni qua! Come here! Tweet! Come here!"
He patted his fat knee, and the dog crept forward. The man held another piece of bread.
"Now," he said to the dog, "listen! Listen. I am going to tell you something.
Il soldato va alla guerra—
No—no, Not yet. When I say three!
Il soldato va alla guerra
Mangia male, dorme in terra—
Listen. Be still. Quiet now. UNO—DUE—E—TRE!"
It came out in one simultaneous yell from the man, the dog in sheer bewilderment opened his jaws and let the bread go down his throat, and wagged his tail in agitated misery.
"Ah," said the man, "you are learning. Come! Come here! Come! Now then! Now you know. So! So! Look at me so!"
The stout, good-looking man of forty bent forward. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck stood out. He talked to the dog, and imitated the dog. And very well indeed he reproduced something of the big, gentle, wistful subservience of the animal. The dog was his totem—the affectionate, self-mistrustful, warm-hearted hound.