Rudyard Kipling Ill butcher at the corner when the shutters were being taken down — just as if he hadn’t enough to eat in his own proper house,” said Dick. “Binks, is that a true bill?” said Torpenhow, severely. The little dog retreated under the sofa cushion, and showed by the fat white back of him that he really had no further interest in the discussion. “Strikes me that another disreputable dog went for a walk, too,” said the Nilghai. “What made you get up so early? Torp said you might be buying a horse.” “He knows it would need three of us for a serious business like that. No, I felt lonesome and unhappy, so I went out to look at the sea, and watch the pretty ships go by.” “Where did you go?” “Somewhere on the Channel. Progly or Snigly, or some watering-place was its name; I’ve forgotten; but it was only two hours’ run from London and the ships went by.” “Did you see anything you knew?” “Only the Barralong outwards to Australia, and an Odessa grain-boat loaded down by the head. It was a thick day, but the sea smelt good.” “Wherefore put on one’s best trousers to see the Barralong?” said Torpenhow, pointing. “Because I’ve nothing except these things and my painting duds. Besides, I wanted to do honor to the sea. “Did She make you feel restless?” asked the Nilghai, keenly. “Crazy. Don’t speak of it. ’'m sorry I went.” Torpenhow and the Nilghai exchanged a look as Dick, stooping, busied himself among the former's boots and trees. “These will do,” he said at last; “I can’t say I think much of your taste in slippers, but the fit’s the thing.”