Then there were a number of the porters who were Mohammedans of a sort, but these were wont to say, "O, what is a creed among friends ?" It was quite cold up on the plateau at night.

Sometimes the wind swept down from the distant fringe of mountains and shook the tents until the tent pegs jumped out of the ground.

The night guard would pile more wood on the big central camp-fire near our tents and the porters, in their eighteen or twenty little tents, would huddle closer together for warmth.

They were nights for at least three blankets, and even four were not too many.
Consequently Little Wanderobo Dog was confronted by the necessity of adopting a place to sleep where he would be safe from those sharp arrows of the north wind that swept across the high stretches of the plateau.
So he ingratiated himself into my tent with many friendly wags of his tail and a countenance of such benign faith in human nature that he was allowed to remain.

At many times in the night I was awakened and I knew that Little Wanderobo Dog was dreaming about some wicked swamp ogre that was trying to kick him.
At first he was not a silent sleeper, but later on these awful nightmares came with less frequency and I presume his dreams took on a more beatific character.