"Blackguard," said Mr. Ramsay, meaning to be distantly affable, as became their social relations; but the soldier looked round to favour him with a prolonged stare. Then, drawing a deep breath—
"If you want to call me, don't trouble to speak, just whistle—so"—
At the whistle a dog came leaping out from some bushes by the river. "Why, it's Powder! Come along, then, dear old chap!"
So for some time, while they paced slowly over the meadows and climbed the high bench beyond, the common soldier and the dog made perfect company, while the Tenderfoot rode behind full of bitterness.
"My good man," he said at last, irritably, drawing abreast, "the day before yesterday I left Windermere on horseback—I'd never been on the back of a horse in all my life."
"So I see;" said the Blackguard, glancing over the other with scorching criticism.
"I was frightened to death, but whatever you think of me I can keep my cowardice to myself."
"So I observe. Sure sign of a thoroughbred!" said the Blackguard gravely. "Now, if you pick up Powder by the tail, he won't let out a whimper."
Mr. Ramsay looked at the animal, which was piebald red and white like a cow, exhibited in its person symptoms of about eighteen different kinds of dog, and had not the slightest vestige of a tail, not even a bud. The Tenderfoot tried to be freezingly polite.
"Fit for the Dogs' Home, I should think."