Part 35 (1/2)
”Come out,” I said, ”and show yourself.”
”Not much,” he said. ”A parcel! I'm not going to be a jolly old parcel for anybody.”
”It's only a way of speaking,” I pleaded. ”Actually you are travelling as a small black gentleman. You will go with the guard--a delightful man.”
Chum came out reluctantly. The clerk leant over the counter and managed to see him.
”According to our regulations,” he said, and I always dislike people who begin like that, ”he has to be on a chain. A leather lead won't do.”
Chum smiled all over himself. I don't know which pleased him more--the suggestion that he was a very large and fierce dog, or the impossibility now of his travelling with the guard, delightful man though he might be.
He gave himself a shake and started for the door.
”Tut, tut, it's a great disappointment to me,” he said, trying to look disappointed, but his back _would_ wriggle. ”This chain business--silly of us not to have known--well, well, we shall be wiser another time. Now let's go home.”
Poor old Chum; I _had_ known. From a large coat pocket I produced a chain.
”_Dash_ it,” said Chum, looking up at me pathetically, ”you might almost _want_ to get rid of me.”
He was chained, and the label tied on to him. Forgive me that label, Chum; I think that was the worst offence of all. And why should I label one who was speaking so eloquently for himself; who said from the tip of his little black nose to the end of his stumpy black tail, ”I'm a silly old a.s.s, but there's nothing wrong in me, and they're sending me away!”
But according to the regulations--one must obey the regulations, Chum.
I gave him to the guard--a delightful man. The guard and I chained him to a brake or something. Then the guard went away, and Chum and I had a little talk....
After that the train went off.
Good-bye, little dog.
INDOORS
x.x.xII. PHYSICAL CULTURE
”Why don't you sit up?” said Adela at dinner, suddenly prodding me in the back. Adela is old enough to take a motherly interest in my figure, and young enough to look extremely pretty while doing so.
”I always stoop at meals,” I explained; ”it helps the circulation. My own idea.”
”But it looks so bad. You ought----”
”Don't improve me,” I begged.
”No wonder you have----”
”Hus.h.!.+ I haven't. I got a bullet on the liver in the campaign of '03, due to over smoking; and sometimes it hurts me a little in the cold weather. That's all.”
”Why don't you try the Hyperion?”
”I will. Where is it?”