But all this happened long ago—more than half a year ago. And the same thing occurred as in the matter of the clinical interim. Time and oblivion have buried it deep, and upon the floating surface of these—which constitute the base of all life,—we continue to live on. Bashan, to be sure, appeared to be rather contemplative for a few days, but he has long ago recovered his full and undiminished joy in hunting mice, pheasants, rabbits, and water-fowl, and our return home means to him merely attendance upon the next going forth. Whenever I reach my front door I turn round and face him once more, and that is the signal for him to come jumping up the steps in two great leaps in order that he may raise himself on his hind legs and stem his forepaws against the front door, so that I can pat his shoulder and say good-bye. “To-morrow, Bashan,” I remark, “we’ll go out again—in case I don’t have to make a trip into the big outside world.” And then I hurry into the house to rid myself of my hob-nailed boots, for the soup has been served and stands smoking on the table. GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bashan and I, by Thomas Mann