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As they made their way out onto Dundonald Street, Cyril raised his head and sniffed at the air. There were the familiar smells of Drummond Place, the smell of the gardens in the centre, the sharp smell of oil on the stone setts, a cooking smell from somewhere close by, the smell of damp. All of that was there, but there was something else, a smell so exciting that Cyril quivered in anticipation.

‘What is it, boy?’ Angus asked.

Cyril looked up at his master. Then he twisted his neck round and smelled the air again. He had to go where his nose took him; he simply had to.

‘What’s troubling you, old chap?’ asked Angus. ‘Are you hungry?’

Cyril tugged at his lead. It was an insistent tug, an urgent one, and Angus decided to let him go where he wanted to go. So, with Cyril pulling at the leash, Angus followed him across the road, to the gardens in the centre of Drummond Place.

‘So you want a run round?’ asked Angus, when they reached the half-open gate of the gardens. ‘All right. But make it brief. I’m hungry.’

He bent down to take the leash off Cyril’s collar. The moment he did this, Cyril tore towards the centre of the gardens. Angus, amused by Cyril’s sudden, but totally understandable desire for a bit of freedom, followed behind his dog.

It was one of those generous summer evenings when the light persists, and it was quite bright enough for him to see exactly what was happening. A woman had been walking her dog, a large terrier of some sort, in the gardens, and now, to Angus Lordie’s horror, Cyril rushed over to this dog and began what could only be interpreted as amatory advances. The woman shouted loudly and threw something at Cyril, missing him by some margin. Angus dashed forward, shouting his apologies as he did so. Cyril and the female dog were now in full embrace.

‘Stop him!’ shouted the woman. ‘Stop him!’

Angus struck at Cyril with his leash, using it as a whip, but he missed. He raised his arm again and struck once more. This time, the lead connected with Cyril, but the amorous dog seemed to be impervious to his master’s displeasure. There was a growling sound, a warning.

Angus turned to the woman. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘It appears that . . .’

The woman glared at him.

‘Listen,’ said Angus testily. ‘You shouldn’t take a dog out in that condition.’

‘How dare you!’ snapped the woman.

Angus looked at Cyril reproachfully. New dogs, perhaps, behaved with greater sensitivity; Cyril, it seemed, was not a new dog.

77. Olive has News of Bertie’s Blood Test

Ever since Olive had come to play ‘house’ in Scotland Street, Bertie had tried to avoid her at school. One reason for this was that he feared that if he talked to her she would try to arrange a further visit; another was that he was concerned that she might wish to give him the result of the blood test she had carried out.

Bertie remembered with a shudder the moment when Olive had cornered him in his room and insisted on plunging the needle of her syringe into his upper arm. It had hurt, even if not quite as much as he had feared, but what had terrified him was the sight of his blood rising so very easily in the barrel of the syringe. Olive herself had seemed to be slightly surprised at this and remarked, with some satisfaction: ‘I seem to have found a vein first time, Bertie! And look at all that blood. Look at it!’

That had been some days ago, and Bertie hoped that Olive had forgotten all about the test, whatever it was, that she was proposing to conduct. He wondered if he could ask for his blood back, and if it could be injected back into him – by a proper nurse this time. But he thought that it was probably too late for that, and this was confirmed when Olive eventually trapped him in the playground.

‘No, don’t go away, Bertie,’ she said. ‘I need to talk to you.’

Bertie looked about him desperately. At the other side of the playground, Tofu and several other boys were engaged in some game; they had not noticed Bertie, and so no help would come from that quarter. Bertie