“Certainly it has,” said Jip. “Hot water smells quite different from cold water. It is warm water—or ice—that has the really difficult smell. Why, I once followed a man for ten miles on a dark night by the smell of the hot water he had used to shave with—for the poor fellow had no soap.... Now then, let us see which way the wind is blowing. Wind is very important in long-distant smelling. It mustn’t be too fierce a wind—and of course it must blow the right way. A nice, steady, damp breeze is the best of all.... Ha!—This wind is from the North.” Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself, “Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed—No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes—hundreds of ’em—cubs; and—” “Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind?” asked the Doctor. “Why, of course!” said Jip. “And those are only a few of the easy smells—the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now, and I’ll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind—a few of the dainty ones.” Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open. For a long time he said nothing. He kept as still as a stone. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all. When at last he began to speak, it sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream. “Bricks,” he whispered, very low—“old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dove-cote—or perhaps a granary—with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses’ drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms bursting through the rotting leaves; and—and—and—” “Any parsnips?” asked Gub-Gub. “No,” said Jip. “You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever. And no snuff—plenty of pipes and cigarettes, and a few cigars. But no snuff. We must wait till the wind changes to the South.” “Yes, it’s a poor wind, that,” said Gub-Gub. “I think you’re a fake, Jip. Who ever heard of finding a man in the middle of the ocean just by smell! I told you you couldn’t do it.” “Look here,” said Jip, getting really angry. “You’re going to get a bite on the nose in a minute! You needn’t think that just because the Doctor won’t let us give you what you deserve, that you can be as cheeky as you like!” “Stop quarreling!” said the Doctor—“Stop it! Life’s too short. Tell me, Jip, where do you think those smells are coming from?” “From Devon and Wales—most of them,” said Jip—“The wind is coming that way.”