Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 27)( Page 2 ) His Duty

There were two small windows looking out on to the yard, but no door in the back of the building; thus, in order to get into the yard, it was necessary to go out of the front door and round the side of the house. On many occasions Tom, roused by the screaming of the fowls, had seized his gun and run round to get a shot at the thieves; but the time so lost was enough for a kaffir dog, and the noise made in opening the reed gate gave ample warning of his coming. The result was that Tom generally had all his trouble for nothing; but it was not always so.  Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and invariably got some satisfaction out of what followed; once Jock caught one of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held on to the hind leg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he had caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in the bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance. That was the kind of life to which Jock seemed to have settled down. He was then in the very prime of life, and I still hoped to get him back to me some day to a home where he would end his days in peace.  Yet it seemed impossible to picture him in a life of ease and idleness--a watch-dog in a house sleeping away his life on a mat, his only excitement keeping off strange kaffirs and stray dogs, or burrowing for rats and moles in a garden, with old age, deafness, and infirmities growing year by year to make his end miserable.  I had often thought that it might have been better had he died fighting--hanging on with his indomitable pluck and tenacity, tackling something with all the odds against him; doing his duty and his best as he had always done- and died as Rocky's dog had died.  If on that last day of our hunting together he had got at the lioness, and gone under in the hopeless fight; if the sable bull had caught and finished him with one of the scythe-like sweeps of the scimitar horns; if he could have died--like Nelson--in the hour of victory!  Would it not have been better for him--happier for me? Often I thought so.  For to fade slowly away; to lose his strength and fire and intelligence; to outlive his character, and no longer be himself!  No, that could not be happiness! Well, Jock is dead!  Jock, the innocent cause of Seedling's downfall and death, lies buried under the same big Fig Tree: the graves stand side by side.  He died, as he lived--true to his trust; and this is how it happened, as it was faithfully told to me: It was a bright moonlight night- Think of the scores we had spent together, the mild glorious nights of the Bushveld!--and once more Tom was roused by a clatter of falling boxes and the wild screams of fowls in the yard.  Only the night before the thieves had beaten him again; but this time he was determined to be even with them.  Jumping out of bed he opened the little window looking out on to the fowl-house, and, with his gun resting on the sill, waited for the thief.  He waited long and patiently; and by-and-by the screaming of the fowls subsided enough for him to hear the gurgling and scratching about in the fowl-house, and he settled down to a still longer watch; evidently the kaffir dog was enjoying his stolen meal in there.