tchcraft, in spite of myself. I can
believe anything about a cat. She is heartless and mercenary. Her name has
become the synonym of everything that is mean, spiteful, and vicious. "An
old cat" is the unkindest thing you can say about a woman.

But the dog wears his heart on his sleeve. His life is as open as the day.
He has his indecorums, but he has no secrets. You may see the worst of him
at a glance, but the best of him is inexhaustible. A cat is as remote from
your life as a lizard, but a dog is as intimate as your own thoughts or
your own shadow, and his loyalty is one of the consolations of a disloyal
world. You remember that remark of Charles Reade's: "He was only a man, but
he was as faithful as a dog." It was the highest tribute he could pay to
his hero--that he was as faithful as a dog. And think of his services--see
him drawing his cart in Belgium, rounding up the sheep into the fold on the
Yorkshire fells, tending the cattle by the highway, warning off the night
prowler from the lonely homestead, always alert, always obedient, always
the friend of man, be he never so friendless.... Shall we go for a walk?

At the joyous word Quilp leapt on me with a frenzied demonstration. "Good
dog," I said. "If Mr. McKenna puts a guinea tax on you I'll never say a
good word for him again."

"W.G."

The worst of spending week-ends in the country in these anxious days is the
difficulty of getting news. About six o'clock on Saturday evening I am
seized with a furious hunger. What has happened on the East front? What on
the West? What in Serbia? Has Greece made up its heroic mind? Is Rumania
still trembling on the brink? What does the French communique say? These
and a hundred other questions descend on me with frightful insistence.
Clearly I can't go to bed without having them answered. But there is not an
evening paper to be got nearer than the little railway station in the
valley two miles away, and there is no way of getting it except by Shanks'
mare. And so, unable to resist the glamour of _The Star_, I start out
across the fields for the station.

As I stood on the platform last Saturday evening devouring the latest war
news under the dim oil lamp, a voice behind me said, in broad rural accent,
"Bill, I say, W.G. is dead." At the word I turned hastily to another column
and found the news that had stirred him. And even in the midst of
world-shaking events it stirred me too. For a brief moment I forgot the war