XVIII

Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself,

“Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed⁠—No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes⁠—hundreds of ’em⁠—cubs; and⁠—”

“Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind?” asked the Doctor.

“Why, of course!” said Jip. “And those are only a few of the easy smells⁠—the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now, and I’ll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind⁠—a few of the dainty ones.”

Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open.

For a long time he said nothing. He kept as still as a stone. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all. When at last he began to speak, it sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream.

“Bricks,” he whispered, very low⁠—“old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dovecote⁠—or perhaps a granary⁠—with the midday sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses’ drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms bursting through the rotting leaves; and⁠—and⁠—and⁠—”

“Any parsnips?” asked Gub-Gub.

“No,” said Jip. “You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever. And no snuff⁠—plenty of pipes and cigarettes, and a few cigars. But no snuff. We must wait till the wind changes to the South.”