"In pantibus infidelium," quoth an unfrocked priest, one of our teamsters, "requiescat in pantis. E pantibus cockalorum, gorlia in pantissimus Piccadilliensis."
For a half a mile out from camp, Mr. Rams was thoughtful, then in the most sportsmanlike manner called, "I say, Blackguard—"
"If you want to call me," said I, "just whistle—so."
At the whistle, my dog came bounding after us. But as troop dog commanding the bobbery pack in camp he had to take the dinner parade, and keep proper discipline. Alas, regardless of duty, reckless of consequences, he romped ahead, leading my procession, for once forgetting his rank and dignity. The most exciting smells bobbed up all round him. "Rabbits!" he barked. "Badger!" he shrieked. "Oh, snakes!"
"My good man," said Rams with a jolt, determined to put me in my proper place as a common soldier. "Two days ago I'd never been on a horse."
"So I see."
"If this was the city, you'd be the tenderfoot, scared at our traffic. What the hell do you know about me? Whatever you think, I'm no coward, facing this beastly expedition."
"All alone, too," said I. "Sure sign of the thoroughbred. No nurse. Now if you picked up my dog by the tail, he wouldn't even whimper."
Rich Mixed had no tail, not even a bud. That member had lately been lost in mortal combat.
"Ought to be in a dog's home," said Rams, surveying the patch of sealing-wax which marked the site of the departed tail.