“It must be very exciting,” said Fred, in a tone of relish.

“You’ve told us lots about Constantinople now, Cousin Peregrine,” said Maggie, who had the air of having heard quite enough on the subject; “now tell us about why you said Ponto never was in Constantinople.  Don’t the Turks keep dogs?”

“Not as we do, for pets and friends; and yet the dog population of Constantinople is more numerous and powerful, and infinitely more noisy, than I can easily describe to you.”

“Whom do they belong to then?”

“They have no special masters or mistresses.  They are more like troops of wolves than a collection of Pontos.”

“But who gives them their dinners?”

“They live on offal and the offscourings of the city, and though the Turks freely throw all their refuse into their streets, there are so many dogs that they are all half-starved.  They are very fierce, and have as a rule a great dislike to strangers.  At night they roam about the streets, and are said to fall upon any one who does not carry a lantern.”

“But does anybody carry a lantern—­except the watchmen?”

“Everybody does.  Coloured paper lanterns, like the Chinese ones, with a bit of candle inside.  With one of these in one hand and a heavy stone or stick in the other, you may get safely through a night-walk among the howling dogs of Stamboul.”

“What horrible beasts!”

“I think you would pity them if you were there.  They are half starved, and have no friends.”

“There isn’t a home for lost and starving dogs in Constantinople then?”

“The whole city may be considered as the headquarters of starving dogs, but not of lost ones.  That reminds me why I said Ponto had not lived there.  If he had he would know his own grounds, and keep to them.”

“But, Cousin Peregrine, I thought you said the Turkish dogs had no particular homes?”

“Every dog in Constantinople belongs to a particular Quarter of the town, which he knows, and to which he confines himself with marvellous sagacity.  In the Quarter in which he was born, there he must live, and there (if he wishes to die peaceably) he must die.  If he strays on any pretext into another Quarter, the dogs of the Quarter he has invaded will tear him to pieces, and dine upon his bones.”

“How does he know where his own part of the town begins and ends?”

“I cannot tell you, Maggie.  But I can tell you of my own knowledge that he does.  Jack did, though we tried to deceive him over and over again.”

“Who was Jack?”

“The handsomest dog I ever saw in Constantinople.  The Turkish dogs are by no means beautiful as a rule, they are too much like jackals, and as they are apt to be maimed and covered with scars from fights with each other, they do not make much of what good looks they have.  However, Jack was rather less wild and wolfish-looking than most of his friends.  He was of a fine tawny yellow, and had an intelligent face, poor fellow.  He belonged to our Quarter—­in fact the cemetery was his home till he took to lying at our door.”