Each of these waifs had a history of his own. Train, the fox-terrier, was found in the railway station, a lost, distracted dog, evidently a stranger in a strange land, for he did not understand a word of Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blandishments of the Telegraph Baboo. He was middle-aged, English, and a gentleman. What was his past? Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had been left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly ordered up country, and for weeks he had haunted their lines, heart-broken and starving; even now he constantly called at his old quarters, to see if _they_ had come back? Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated condition, by the two others, and was believed to have been the property of a man who had died of cholera the previous rains. These three casuals were now beyond the reach of want, and were well looked after. They employed a dog boy, whose duty it was to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a walk at the end of a chain, merely to be tied up, whilst their attendant gambolled behind a wall with various other urchins. When not enjoying a scamper with their master they took themselves out with great decorum, and it was a funny sight to meet the three strolling leisurely along, precisely like their superiors, or cantering across the maidan almost abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were identical, and it was a truly brave dog who dared to raise his bristles at the trio. They had their various individual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that it was a pity to see a dog of Gunner's age and size so passionately addicted to chasing sparrows. Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in front of the old bungalow, silently enjoying one another's society, till a neighbouring gurra, striking nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress and dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, and only for the susceptibilities of his bearer,—who was an abject slave to convention, and would have considered his conduct erratic and peculiar,—he would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah with his three dumb friends. Gascoigne's drive with Angel had resulted in a paradox—it had effectively taken away his appetite, and supplied him with food for reflection. Poor little neglected ne'er-do-well! What was to be her fate? CHAPTER VII MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES