At the end of twenty paces I lifted the little beast
out, set him on the ground, and walked on. He shook his ears
twice, then lopped after me like a dog, at a slow canter.
At the point where he had tumbled I collected him again by the
ears, lifted him, climbed the bank and restored him to his
thicket, into which he vanished with a flick of his white scut.
"Then I went back very slowly to Farrell. 'Curious things,
animals,' said I. 'If you don't mind, we won't talk any more
golf to-day.'"
NIGHT THE TENTH.
PILGRIMAGE OF HATE.
"A map scored with the zigzags of our route would suggest the
wanderings of a couple of lunatics. But that was the way of it.
I would turn up at breakfast any morning and propound some plan
for a new divagation. Farrell never failed to fall in with it.
For a time, of course, I had him in places whence, with his
ignorance of France, he might have found it hard to escape back
to his own form of civilisation. But even when he had picked up
enough of the language to ask for a railway ticket and something
to eat, his reliance on me continued to be pathetic, dog-like.
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