A shadow fell athwart the verandah.
Webb looked up enquiringly. A young fellow in military uniform stood without.
"Hallo!" remarked the stranger with a slight drawl. "I say, put that pistol away, you won't need it. You don't seem to remember me?"
"I can't," replied Webb.
"I was in that little affair when your chum was stabbed," continued the army officer. "It was I who suggested the dog should be shot—but I've changed my opinion. You and I, Mr. Webb, are going to save that animal—and we start at once."
"You think he's a chance?" enquired Tom hopefully.
"It's a pure experiment on my part," continued the veterinary officer. "I have hopes that it will succeed. It depends largely upon the dog. Compound fracture of an animal's jaw is considered 'na poo'. You see it takes eighteen days for the bones to set, and in that time the brute's starved to death. How long are you here?"
"About a month, I expect, Mr.——?"
"Dixon, my name. A month? Plenty of time on your hands? Good. Same here. We're having quite a slack after a most unholy rush. Hope it'll last. If not, you'll have to continue the treatment single-handed."
"I say, it's awfully good of you," began Webb.