COLONEL and Mrs. Gascoigne sat in their cool matted verandah drinking early morning tea, and watching the malees splashing water over the plants from their primitive earthern chatties, and the syce cutting luscious green lucerne for the expectant horses. Their only companions were the fox-terriers, Sam and John, and any description of the Gascoigne _ménage_ which omitted these gentlemen would be inadequate and incomplete. They were twins, and as unlike in appearance and disposition as it was possible to be. Sam was a remarkably handsome dog, exhibiting all the best points of his race. He had a black face, bright tan eyebrows, and silky white ears; his disposition was sporting, affectionate, easy-going, and game, but his intellect was not brilliant. On the other hand, his brother was endowed with the master mind; _he_ planned, and Sam carried out. It was John's great brain that found means to extricate them when they got into nasty scrapes connected with breakages, pet rabbit-killing, and egg scandals. In the clever discovery of other dogs' bone stores in ferreting out useful short cuts and rare sport, John was prominently to the front. Sam was a determined hatter—and, alas, "catter"—of unwearying energy and speed, but not insensible to luxury, caresses, and praise. He liked to lie on a lady's lap—although he weighed twenty-one solid pounds of bone and muscle. He liked to be petted, and to have his throat scratched, and to repose in the middle of a soft down quilt (he being muddy or otherwise); but he was so handsome, and so insinuating, that his wishes were generally gratified.