“I think you could, Fred. I once lived next door to a man who was very fond of his garden.  It was a mere strip in front of his hut—­for we were quartered in camp at this time—­and not even a paling separated it from a similar strip in front of my quarters.  My bit, I regret to say, was not like his in any respect but shape.  I had a rather ragged bit of turf, and he had a glowing mass of flowers.  The monotony of my grass-plat was only broken by the marrow-bones and beef-ribs which my dog first picked and then played with under my windows.  I was as fond of him as my brother-officer was of his flowers.  I am sorry to say that Dash had a fancy for the gayer garden, and for some time my good-tempered neighbour bore patiently with his inroads, and with a sigh buried the beef-bone that Dash had picked among the mignonette at the roots of a magnificent rose which he often alluded to as ‘John Hopper,’ and seemed to treat as a friend.  Mr. Hopper certainly throve on Dash’s bones, but unfortunately Dash took to applying them himself to the roots of plants for which I believe that bone manure is not recommended.  When he made a hole two foot deep in the Nemophila bed, and laid a sheep’s head by in it against a rainy day, I felt that something must be done.  After the humblest apologies to my neighbour, I begged for a few days’ grace.  He could not have spoken more feelingly of the form, scent, and colour of his friend John Hopper than I ventured to do in favour of the intelligence of my friend Dash.  In short I begged for a week’s patience on his part, that I might teach Dash to know his own garden.  If I failed to do so, I promised to put him on the chain, much as I dislike tying up dogs.”

“How did you manage, Cousin?”

“Whenever Dash strayed into the next garden, I began to scold him in the plainest English, and covered him with reproaches, till he slunk gradually back to his own untidy grass-plat.  When he touched his own grounds, I changed my tone at once, to approbation.  At first this change simply brought him flying to my feet again, if I was standing with my friend in his garden.  But after a plentiful application of, ’How dare you, Sir?  Go back’ (pointing), ’go back to your garden.  If this gentleman catches you here again, he’ll grind your bones to make John Hopper’s bread.  That’s a good dog.  No!  Down!  Stay where you are!’—­Dash began to understand.  It took many a wistful gaze of his brown eyes before he fully comprehended what I meant, but he learned it at last.  He never put paw into Major E——­’s garden without looking thoroughly ashamed of himself.  He would lie on his own ragged lawn and wistfully watch me sitting and smoking among the roses; but when I returned to our own quarters he welcomed me with an extravagant delight which seemed to congratulate me on my escape from the enemy’s country.”

“Oh, Cousin Peregrine!  We must try and teach Ponto to know his own garden.”

“I strongly advise you to do so.  Ponto is a gentleman of honour and intelligence, I feel convinced.  I think he will learn his neighbourly duties, and if he does do so as well as Dash did—­whatever you may think of Mr. Mackinnon—­I think Mr. Mackinnon will soon cease to regard Ponto as—­a nasty next-door neighbour.”