one end of a certain damp dark gully up north. Thither came a party of
big marines and a small Irish terrier, bringing with them a long naval
gun, which they covered with a _camouflage_ of sackcloth and ashes and
let off at intervals. Whenever the long gun was about to fire the small
dog went mad, bounced about behind the gun-trail like an indiarubber
ball, in an ecstasy of expectation. When the great gun boomed he
shrieked with joy and shot away up the gully looking for the rabbit. The
poor little dog's hunt up and down the gully for the rabbit that never
had been was one of the most pathetic sights I ever saw. That so many
big men with such an enormous gun should miss the rabbit every time was
gradually killing him with disgust and exasperation.

Meeting my groom one evening I spoke of the matter to him, casually
mentioning that there was a small countryman of ours close at hand
breaking his heart because there never was any rabbit. I clearly
explained to my groom that I was suggesting nothing, dropping no hints,
but I thought it a pity such a sportsman should waste his talents with
those sea-soldiers when there were outfits like ours about, offering all
kinds of opportunities to one of the right sort. I again repeated that I
was making no suggestions and passed on to some other subject.

Imagine my astonishment when, on making our customary bi-weekly trek
next day, I discovered the small terrier secured to our tool-limber by a
piece of baling-wire, evidently enjoying the trip and abusing the
limber-mules as if he had known them all his life. Since he had
insisted on coming with us there was nothing further to be said, so we
christened him "The O'Murphy," attached him to the strength for rations
and discipline, and for two years he has shared our joys and sorrows,
our billets and bully-beef, up and down the land of Somewheres.