He trotted along. There are moments when a man feels that all he needs
in order to be a delivery wagon is a horse and a driver.

"He had better chirrup to the dog while he's there, don't you think?"
suggested Sam. He felt that a resolute man with legs as long as Bream's
might well deposit a cloak on a berth and be back under the half-minute.

"Oh, yes! Bream!"

"Hello?"

"While you're down there just chirrup a little more to poor Pinky. He
does appreciate it so!"

Bream disappeared. It is not always easy to interpret emotion from a
glance at a man's back; but Bream's back looked like that of a man to
whom the thought has occurred that, given a couple of fiddles and a
piano, he would have made a good hired orchestra.

"How is your dear little dog, by the way?" enquired Sam solicitously,
as he fell into step by her side.

"Much better now, thanks. I've made friends with a girl on board--did
you ever hear her name--Jane Hubbard--she's a rather well-known big-game
hunter and she fixed up some sort of a mixture for Pinky which did
him a world of good. I don't know what was in it except Worcester
Sauce, but she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they
had the botts ... it's very nice of you to speak so affectionately of
poor Pinky when he bit you."