that it had been empty for six months. A few
good prints--chiefly sporting--adorned the walls; and the books in the
heavy oak revolving bookcase which stood beside one of the big leather
chairs were of the type generally described as light. . . .

For a time Vane stood by the mantelpiece thoughtfully staring out of
the window; while Binks, delirious with joy, explored each
well-remembered corner, and blew heavily down the old accustomed cracks
in the floor. Suddenly with a wild scurry, he fled after his principal
joy--the one that never tired. He had seen Vane throw it into the
corner, and now he trotted sedately towards this wonderful master of
his, who had so miraculously returned, with his enemy in his mouth. He
lay down at Vane's feet; evidently the game was about to begin.

The enemy was an indiarubber dog which emitted a mournful whistling
noise through a hole in its tummy. It was really intended for the use
of the very young in their baths--to enable them to squirt a jet of
water into the nurse's eye; but it worried Binks badly. The harder he
bit, the harder it whistled. It seemed impossible to kill the damn
thing. . . .

For a while he bit the whistling atrocity to his heart's content; then
with it still between his fore paws he looked up into Vane's face.
Surely his master had not forgotten the rules of the game. Really--it
was a little steep if it was so. But Vane, as far as Binks could see,
was looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece with a slight
smile on his face. One or two mournful whistles produced no apparent
result. So Binks decided it was time for desperate measures. He stood
up; and, with his head on one side, he contemplated his hated
adversary, prone on the carpet. Then he gave a short sharp bark--just
as a reminder. . . .

It was quite sufficient, and Vane apologised handsomely. "Beg your
pardon, old man," he remarked. "For the moment I was thinking of
trivialities." He moved his foot backwards and forwards close to the
indiarubber dog, and Binks, with his ears pricked up, and his head
turning slightly as he followed the movement of his master's foot,
waited. Shortly, he knew that this hereditary enemy of his would fly
to one side of the room or the other. The great question was--which?
It would hit the wall, and rebound on to the floor, where it would be
seized, and borne back with blood curdling growls for the process to be
repeated . . . The game, it may be