A morning came when the kennel was empty: Jack was not dead--he was well again, and, as usual, out.
Just then I was absent for a week or ten days then, back again, I went out one fine morning for a long day's ramble along the coast.

A mile or so from home, happening to glance back I caught sight of a black dog's face among the bushes thirty or forty yards away gazing earnestly at me.
It was Jack, of course, nothing but his head visible in an opening among the bushes--a black head which looked as if carved in ebony, in a wonderful setting of shining yellow furze blossoms.

The beauty and singularity of the sight made it impossible for me to be angry with him, though there's nothing a man more resents than being shadowed, or secretly followed and spied upon, even by a dog, so, without considering what I was letting myself in for, I cried out "Jack" and instantly he bounded out and came to my side, then flew on ahead, well pleased to lead the way.
"I must suffer him this time," I said resignedly, and went on, he always ahead acting as my scout and hunter--self-appointed, of course, but as I had not ordered him back in trumpet tones and hurled a rock at him to enforce the command, he took it that he was appointed by me.

He certainly made the most of his position; no one could say that he was lacking in zeal.

He scoured the country to the right and left and far in advance of me, crashing through furze thickets and splashing across bogs and streams, spreading terror where he went and leaving nothing for me to look at.