“It may seem a bit absurd to you, sir,” Punch said almost apologetically, “to be fussing this way about a dog, but ’e’s more to me than I could ever explain. If I hadn’t got ’im to talk to and have about at nights and kind o’ smile at when you’re wanting company the world would be another kind of place.” Maradick tried to fix his mind on Punch’s words, but the ghostliness of the place and the hour seemed to hang round him so that he could not think of anything, but only wanted to get back to lights and company. Every now and again he turned round because he fancied that he heard steps. Their feet sank into the soft soil and then stumbled over tufts of grass. Faint mists swept up from the sea and shadowed the moon. Behind them the lights of the town twinkled like the watching eye of some mysterious enemy. A bird rose in front of them with shrill protesting cries, and whirled, screaming, into the skies. Punch seemed to be talking to himself. “Toby, boy, where are you? Toby, old dog. You know your master and you wouldn’t hide from your master. It’s time to be getting home, Toby. Time for bed, old boy. Damn the dog, why don’t ’e come? Toby, old boy!” Every few minutes he started as though he saw it, and he would run forward a few paces and then stop. And indeed, in the gathering and shifting mist that went and came and took form and shape, there might have been a thousand white dogs wandering, an army of dogs, passing silently, mysteriously across the moor. “Toby, old boy, it’s time to be getting back. ’E was that used to the place you couldn’t imagine ’is being lost anywhere round about. ’E was that cunning . . .” But the army of dogs passed silently by, curving with their silent feet in and out of the mists. One new dog had joined their ranks. He fell in at the rear and went by with the others; but his master did not see them. Suddenly the mists broke and the moon shone out across the moor like a flame. The moon leapt into the light. A little to the right on a raised piece of ground lay something white. The army of dogs had vanished. The woods, the moor, the sea, were bathed in white colour. Punch ran forward with a cry; he was down on his knees and his arms were round the dog’s body. He bent down, and for a moment there was perfect silence, only, in a far distant field, some sheep was crying. Then he looked up. The tears were rolling down his face; he lifted his hand and brushed them back. “It’s Toby. My dog! ’E’s been killed. Something’s torn ’im. . . .” He bent down and picked it up and held it in his arms. “Toby, old dog, it’s time to go back. It’s all right; ’e hasn’t hurt you, old boy. It’s all right.” He broke off. “Curse him,” he said, “curse him! ’E did it—I know his marks—I’ll kill ’im for it.” His hands fell down to his side. “Toby, old dog! Toby. . . .” The moon crept back again behind the mist. In the shadow the man sat nursing the dog in his arms. Far below him sounded the sea.