“Aye, you’re tough, Old-Timer,” he had been heard to growl to his dog; “you’re a hard case, all right.  There isn’t a soft hair on you, is there, Sourdough?  And they all know it.  They may squeal, but they’ve got to give trail when Sourdough comes along.”

There were times when he would cuff the dog, or snatch his food from him, for the sheer delight of hearing the beast snarl—­as he always would—­at his own master.

“What a husky!” he would say in an ecstasy of admiration.  “You’d go for me if I gave you half a chance, wouldn’t you, Sourdough?  And I don’t blame you, you old tough.”

And now it seemed the barracks had no time to note Sourdough’s implacable sourness; everybody was too busy praising that sleek, well-groomed brute from England, of whom the sergeant thought very much as some savage old-timers think of tenderfeet and remittance men, but with a deal more of bitterness in his contempt.

“But Sourdough will spoil your fine coat for you, my gentleman, the first time you come in our way,” the sergeant would mutter to himself when he chanced to see Dick giving Jan his morning brush-down after Paddy was groomed.

He had been foiled half a dozen times in his attempts to get Sourdough into Paddy’s stall when Jan was there and Dick Vaughan engaged in any way elsewhere.  It seemed that some of Dick’s comrades were always on hand to bar the way; and, for appearance’s sake, the sergeant could not have it said that he had deliberately brought about a fight between his dog and the valued hound of an officer, who was everybody’s favorite.

“They’re afraid, Sourdough, that’s what it is; they’re afraid you might chew up the overgrown brute and spit him out in scraps about the yard.  Let ’em wait.  We’ll give ’em something to be afraid of presently.”

He meant it, and he kept his word.

Since the Italian murder case, a regular craze had developed among the men for trailing and the education of dogs.  The barracks dogs were constantly being added to, and every man who owned or could obtain a dog gave his leisure to attempts—­largely unsuccessful—­at training the animal to track.

O’Malley was one of the first to succumb to the new diversion, and was lavishing immense care and patience upon the education of a cross-bred Irish terrier, who would soon be able to wipe the eye of any Sassenach dog in Canada, so he would!  Meanwhile O’Malley, conveniently forgetful of Jan’s English nationality, was fond of borrowing the big hound for an hour or so together to help him in his educational efforts on behalf of Micky Doolan, the terrier.  In such a matter Dick Vaughan and Jan were equally approachable and good-natured.  Indeed, the pair of them had already done more than any of the different pupils’ masters in the matter of this revival of schooling among the barracks dogs.