His daily grooming
of the broncho and his master once over, his time was his own, and
he employed it to the best of his ability. Fate had endowed Kruger
Bobs with a smile which won instant liking and gained instant
fulfilment of his wishes. Just as, months before, he had sat on the
river bank at Piquetberg Road, and grinned persuasively at the jam
tins, so now he ranged up and down among the farms scattered about
Winburg, and grinned himself into possession of manifold eggs and
plump fowls and even of soft wheat bread, the final luxury of the
biscuit-sated trooper who owned his fealty.
"'Is thy servant a dog?'" Carew had quoted gravely at sight of his
first army biscuit.
And Weldon had made answer,--
"Not if he knows it. I have always had full sympathy with my hound
who leaves his dog-bread in favor of a bit of oak planking gnawed
out from his kennel floor."
But Carew was less dainty. Nevertheless, he attacked the biscuit
with two flat stones, and mixed the debris with his coffee.
Now, however, thanks to the efforts of Kruger Bobs, they were living
thriftily and upon the fat of the land.
"How do you get it all, Kruger Bobs? "Weldon had demanded, one day.
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