This was shrewd in Ryan,
for he reasoned that Major Carleton might wait for an officer's dog,
but never for one that belonged to only an enlisted man; but really it
was the other way, the enlisted men held the brakes. The dogs ran back
almost a mile to the water tank, and the conductor backed the train
down after them, and not until both dogs were caught and on board
could steam budge it ahead.
The major was in temporary command of the regiment at that time. He is
a very pompous man and always in fear that proper respect will not be
shown his rank, and when we were being backed down he went through our
car and said in a loud voice: "I am very sorry Mrs. Rae, that you
should lose your fine greyhound, but this train cannot be detained any
longer--it must move on!" I said nothing, for I saw the two big men in
blue at the brake in front, and knew Major Carleton would never order
them away, much as he might bluster and try to impress us with his
importance, for he is really a tender-hearted man.
Poor Faye was utterly exhausted from running so long, and for some
time Ryan was in a critical condition. It seems that he buried his
wife quite recently, and has left his only child in New Orleans in a
convent, and the greyhound, a pet of both wife and little girl, is all
he has left to comfort him. Everyone is so glad that he got the dog.
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