TOGETHER AGAIN
That night after dinner and a cigarette, he strode into the streets
to distract his mind with the sight of the oriental city and to fill
his ears with the eager cries of the crowd. The lamps flickered.
The sky overhead was as blue nearly as in daytime. He walked
leisurely toward the native quarter, jostled, as he passed, by men in
their brilliant costumes and by a veiled woman or two.
He stopped indifferently before a little café, his eyes on a Turkish
bazaar where velvets and scarfs were being sold at double their worth
under the light of a flaming yellow lamp. As he stood so, his back
to the café where a number of the ship's crew were drinking, he heard
a short sharp sound that had a sweet familiarity about it and whose
individuality made him start with surprise. He could not believe his
ears. He heard the bark again and then he was sprung upon by a
little body that ran out from between the legs of a sailor who sat
drinking his coffee and liquor.
"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Sabron, thinking that he must be the
victim of a hashish dream. "Pitchouné!"
The dog fawned on him and whined, crouched at his feet whining--like
a child. Sabron bent and fondled him. The sailor from the table
called the dog imperatively, but Pitchouné would have died at his
master's feet rather than return. If his throat could have uttered
words he would have spoken, but his eyes spoke. They looked as
though they were tearful.
"Pitchouné, _mon vieux_! No, it can't be Pitchouné. But it _is_
Pitchouné!" And Sabron took him up in his arms. The dog tried to
lick his face.
"_Voyons,_" said the officer to the marine, who came rolling over to
them, "where did you get this dog?"
The young man's voice was imperative and he fixed stern eyes on the
sailor, who pulled his forelock and explained.
"He was following me," said Sabron, not without a slight catch in his
voice. The body of Pitchouné quivered under his arm. "He is my dog.
I think his manner proves it. If you have grown fond of him I am
sorry for you, but I think you will have to give him up."
Sabron put his hand in his pocket and turned a little away to be free
of the native crowd that, chattering and grinning, amused and curious
and eager to participate in any distribution of coin, was gathering
around him. He found two gold pieces which he put into the hand of
the sailor.
"Thank you for taking care of him. I am at the Royal Hotel." He
nodded, and with Pitchouné under his arm pushed his way through the
crowd and out of the bazaar.
He could not interview the dog himself, although he listened, amused,
to Pitchouné's own manner of speech. He spent the latter part of the
evening composing a letter to the minister of war, and although it
was short, it must have possessed certain evident and telling
qualities, for before he left Algiers proper for the desert, Sabron
received a telegram much to the point:
"You may keep your dog. I congratulate you on such a faithful
companion."