Sam was a nice, simple, unaffected dog, and a general favourite. John was stout, well set on his legs, with no approach to style or pedigree; his head was too round, his nose too short—foolish people declared he had "a pretty face," and judges admitted that his cat-like paws were models. He abhorred all endearments and liberties—though to gain certain ends he could beg and give the paw. He was fond of music, and came and sat under the piano when Angel played, occasionally accompanying her in soft, melodious howls. He also sang—to the mandoline. He was a very duck in the water, which his brother loathed. He was shamelessly greedy, and Sam was an ascetic. John was immensely clever, and Sam was a fool. John was self-centred, impulsive, and irritable. Occasionally he and his twin fought for no apparent reason, almost to the death, and were only separated by being vigorously pumped on, or torn, as it were, asunder. They were always badly mauled and covered with blood; Sam was invariably the victor, and immediately set himself to lick his brother's wounds, who received this Samaritan-like attention with sullen toleration. On the sole occasion when John was the best dog he bore himself most unchivalrously, lorded it over his vanquished foe for twenty-four hours, and would not suffer him to come into the presence of their joint mistress, or to approach within six yards of his fat, vainglorious self. But John had delivered his brother from the disagreeable consequences of murder and theft, secured him excellent sport, and on one occasion saved his life, returning home in the middle of the night, rousing the household by his terrific howls, and leading forth a rescue party to where Sam—ever the most enterprising—was smothering in a snake hole. The couple thoroughly appreciated camp life, and, no doubt, bragged prodigiously of their feats and escapades to other less lucky dogs whom they met at the band-stand or in the club compound. At the present moment they were shivering to be taken out. John sat on his hind legs, his gaze pathetically fixed on Gascoigne's last piece of toast, for his greed and presumption were unique. Sam divided his attention between driving sparrows out of the verandah—those vulgar street boys of the world—and keeping a sharp eye on his master's movements. "I say," said Gascoigne, "these fellows have done themselves well in camp! John is actually bloated; he has the figure of an alderman." Angel laughed. "But I can't say as much for you," and he looked at her steadily. He was thinking how soon India robs a girl of her good looks. Angel was white, her cheeks were hollow, her features had sharpened. "I should hope not," she retorted; "surely you don't want _me_ to have the figure of an alderman?" "I should like to see a little flesh on your bones," and he reached over and took up her limp hand and wrist. "What have you been doing to yourself, Angel?" "Nothing."