“Don’t knock him about like that, Serge,” cried Marcus.
“Knock him about?” cried the old soldier. “Why, he likes it; it loosens his skin and makes it fit easy, and knocks out the dust. How did he manage to find his way here? Ask him. I dunno. I left him at home, yelping about and uneasy like, looking as if he’d like to go at the general and tear his toga off his back.”
“I left him,” cried Marcus, “hunting all over the place to find you. He came twice over into my room, whining and asking me where you were.”
“Did he?” cried Serge. “Good old dog!” And he gave the animal a few more of his tender caresses, with the result that the dog wriggled himself along snake-like fashion upon his spine, and then made a playful dab at his friend’s hand.
“I found him at last,” continued Marcus, “in the press-house, and when I came away I shut him up.”
“What, to starve?”
“No, no; I thought he would howl till someone came and let him out; but I didn’t want him to follow me. Someone must have let him out in the morning.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Serge, who began replacing his armour. “He’d have got out somehow, through the window or roof.”
“He couldn’t,” cried Marcus.
“Think not? Then he’d have scratched a way for himself under the door.”