Happiness, to Jeff Titus, had become a fine art. It had become so when
he married Eve Wallace, a little wisp of a city girl who had come to
the Kentucky mountain hinterland to cure a set of weak lungs--and who
had not only wedded but well-nigh civilised the lanky young
mountaineer.
Happiness had remained a fine art for Jeff, up there on his bare
hillside farm, with Eve. It had remained so, for the most part, ever
since his wedding. And now, in a single breath, happiness had taken a
place among the lost arts.
The “single breath” had been supplied by a sour east wind which had
smitten Eve as she stood in the shack dooryard waiting for her
husband’s home-coming. She was thinly clad, and she was in a
perspiration from working in her flower garden. Her lungs were still
weak. The east wind did the rest. By night she had a heavy cold. The
third morning, pneumonia flung out its flaming red No Surrender signal
on each of her fever-scorched cheeks.
And life, to Jeff Titus, all at once became a horror.
A frightened anguish gripped him by the throat and shook him to the
bewildered soul; as he crouched night after night beside the slab bed
where tossed and muttered the delirious little wisp of a woman who was
at once his mate and his saint.
Eve was so tiny, so fragile, so good! It wasn’t fair that this
bullying unseen spirit of illness should torture and harry her and sap
the life of her--while the man who right blithely would have been
burned to a crisp to please her, sat helpless at the bedside, unable
to do a thing to drive forth the damnable visitant! Jeff Titus dwelt
upon the theme of his own impotence to save her; he swore venomously,
and in the peculiarly hideous diction of Kentucky mountaineer
blasphemy.
There were doctors, of course, in the county seat of Duneka,
thirty-two miles away. But they might as well have been in Austria,
for all the good they could do the sick girl. Jeff could not desert
Eve to go in quest of such a physician. Nor could he send one of his
mile-distant neighbours. He knew that. It would be of no use.
Those city doctors had no convenient means of getting over the
thirty-odd miles of half-inaccessible trail, to his hinterland farm.
Assuredly none of them was going to make the journey on foot or on
mule-back, leaving his town practice for days, at the behest of a
hill-billy who perhaps could not or would not pay for the sacrifice.
Meantime, Eve was growing worse, steadily worse. Even the ignorant
Jeff could see that. So, apparently, could the only sharer of his
day-and-night vigils--a huge and lionlike dog which lay pressed close
to the far side of the bed, and which all Titus’ commands could not
keep out of the sick-room.
This dog, Robin Adair, was the joy of Eve’s heart--or he had been,
when her heart still could hold joy and not merely fever and delirium.
One of Eve’s ragged hill-billy admirers had given the dog to her; in
the old days, when Robin was a roly-poly mass of tawny-brown fluff, no
bigger than a Persian cat.
The dog had grown into a shaggy giant. A passing seed-catalogue man
had told Eve he was a collie--a breed of which she had heard, in a
vague fashion, as emanating from Scotland. And she had named him Robin
Adair; after the hero of a Scotch song her mother had been wont to
sing. He was Robin, for short. When she had married Jeff Titus, she
had brought her beloved collie to live at the mountain shack.
From the moment his mistress fell ill, Robin had not once willingly
stirred from her bedside. Drinking little, eating nothing, the great
dog had lain there, his sorrowing brown eyes fixed on the small white
figure in the big slab bed. But of late he was beginning to vary the
vigil by low-voiced whines, from time to time. And once or twice his
huge body quivered as if in physical pain.
It was on the dawn of the fourth day that Robin got to his feet with a
leap, and, pointing his heavy muzzle skyward, set the still room to
reverberating with a yell that was nothing short of unearthly.
Jeff, starting from his daze of misery, made as though to throttle the
brute that had broken in on the invalid’s unresting rest. Then,
remembering Eve’s affection for the collie, he contented himself with
picking Robin up bodily and bearing him towards the door; with the
intent of putting him out of the house.
The door, before Jeff could reach it, was flung open from outside. On
the threshold stood a ramrodlike figure in rusty black. The caller was
the Reverend Ephraim Stair--Methodist circuit-rider for the up-State
counties, and a man whose brain and heart had long since made him the
blindly obeyed autocrat of his scattered mountain flock.
“What’s wrong, Titus?” was his wondering greeting as his sharp old
eyes flashed from the man with the big dog in his arms to the
eternally whispering little form on the bed. “I heard a scream, as I
was riding past, and----”
“Oh, parson!” gasped Jeff in babbling relief, dumping Robin on the
puncheon floor and gripping the circuit-rider by both hands. “For
Gawd’s sake, _do_ suthin’ fer her! She acts like--like she ain’t goin’
to git well none!”
Loud through the mountains were the praises of Stair’s medical lore.
Many were the tales of sick folk he had cured; when the old women had
given them up and had begun gruesomely relishful preparations for the
funeral. Jeff Titus clutched at his unexpected presence, as at a
life-belt. Half in superstitious awe, he glanced at the dog whose
providential screech had made the clergyman halt in his brisk ride
from one county seat to the next.
Meantime, Stair had crossed to the bed, and, on his knees beside it,
was examining the stricken Eve. Jeff came up behind him, standing
awkwardly and with open mouth, in expectation of some miracle.
But no miracle was vouchsafed. Instead the clergyman asked one or two
questions as to the illness’ course, felt the patient’s pulse and her
torrid cheek, then ordered his host to go and fetch in his saddlebags.
“My medicine-kit is in them,” he explained. “And you can stable my
horse, too. I’m going to stay.”
“She--she’s goin’ to git on all right, now you’re here, ain’t she?”
pleaded Titus ingratiatingly, pausing at the door.
“Get my saddlebags!” was the non-committal retort. “Jump! Then you can
heat some water. Wait! Before you go, open those windows. And leave
the door open. Isn’t this poor child having enough trouble in
breathing; without your sealing the room hermetically?”
“Sick folks hadn’t oughter be let have cold air tetch ’em, I’ve allers
heard,” Jeff defended himself, nevertheless obeying. “It gives
’em----”
“It gives them life!” retorted Stair. “Now get those saddlebags!”
Next morning Eve was perceptibly worse: the breathing was more
laboured; the fever blazed higher. This in spite of Stair and his
ceaseless ministrations. Stark despair tore at the husband’s throat.
Following Stair, as the circuit-rider left the room for a moment to
wash his hands at the pump, Titus demanded fiercely:
“She’s a-aimin’ to die, ain’t she? Spit out the truth, man! I got a
right to hear it!”
“I can’t say,” answered Stair, taking no offence at the furious
manner. “She is in the midst of the crisis now. It is the
turning-point in such cases. If she rallies from that--Meanwhile we
can only hope--and work. It is in God’s hands. She----”
“In Gawd’s hands!” mocked Jeff, wildly. “In _Gawd’s_ hands, hey?
You’re Gawd-a’mighty fond of blattin’ ’bout Gawd, parson! But I take
notice He ain’t a-doin’ nothin’ fer that pore sick gal of mine, in
yonder. Why ain’t He? Where is He, anyhow, if He cain’t----”
“He is _here_,” answered Stair very quietly. “Here, and in that
delirious girl’s room, back there. He is wherever His children cry out
to Him in sorrow and pain--just as, in your inmost heart, you are
crying to Him now. If His children are too deaf or too scared or too
noisy, in their grief, to know He has come at their call, then the
fault is with their own stupidity; and not with the all-pitying
Father, who is carrying them through the ordeal.”
He pushed past the mouthing Titus and went back to his post in the
sick-room.
On the second morning Eve was in a heavy sleep. Her once-parched
forehead was moist. Stair, with a jerk of his thumb, motioned Jeff out
into the dooryard. On his withered face was the glow of a conqueror.
Harshly, as if in doubt of his own self-control, the circuit-rider
said:
“The crisis is past. She has turned the corner. I think she will
live. The rest depends on nursing--on building her up. You may thank
God, if you care to. Or if you still think He hasn’t been here----”
“If He ain’t,” choked Titus ecstatically, “He sent a damn’ fine
substitoot:--meanin’ no disrespec’. I--I reckon, parson--I reckon
you-all knows how small I feel; ’bout blabbin’ like I did.
An’--an’--Oh, you’re dead _sure_ she’s a-goin’ to live? There--there
ain’t--there ain’t nothing I c’n say! But--but----”
Incontinently Jeff Titus bolted around the side of the house and out
of sight into the woods. When he returned, an hour later, he was
carrying a half-armful of kindling. Circumstantially and at some
length he explained to Stair that he had spent the entire hour in
looking for it. Stair accepted the explanation in grave credulity and
forebore to glance towards the high-piled heap of kindling in the
woodshed.
At noon Eve awoke. She was very weak, very tired, very thin and
big-eyed. But she was _alive_.
And in Jeff’s heart there was something that made him yearn to howl
aloud in rapture and roll on the grass, and to join the church all
over again, and to thrash some mythical man for speaking mythical ill
of Ephraim Stair; and to turn over his farm and his savings to foreign
missions, and to get very drunk indeed, and to buy Eve a gold watch.
Being a Kentucky mountaineer, and a Titus to boot, he contented
himself with grinning down upon his sick wife and grunting:
“Feel better? That’s nice. Be all right, pretty soon, now. Reckon I’d
best be gittin’ in some more wood, b’fore it rains. So long!”
Robin Adair, like his master, knew Eve was on the way to health again.
But being only a dog and not a mountaineer, Robin did not sneak out of
the house to hide his emotion. He stood beside the bed, his dark eyes
aglow, his furry bulk quivering all over with puppyish joy; and
wagging his plumed tail, frantically, every time his mistress looked
at him.
* * * * *
One evening a few days later the two men were smoking together in the
dooryard before turning in. Eve had been made comfortable for the
night and was asleep.
She had gained a little ground, but her convalescence was maddeningly
slow and uncertain to Jeff. The horror of the past fortnight or so had
left him nerve-shaken. In spite of all Stair’s assurances, he could
not throw off his fear for her safety.
“She has been through a terrible illness,” patiently explained Stair
for the hundredth time. “Her body and her mind are exhausted. She
lies there, like that, because she is resting. She is resting, because
nature is making her rest. She is steadily getting better. Bar
accidents, she is practically out of danger. Her strength is beginning
to seep back, too. It would come back faster, of course, if she could
rally her tired mind to some great interest in life--something that
wouldn’t tire or excite her too much. It would help Mother Nature
along. An interest in life is a wonderful aid, in convalescence. A bit
of unexpected good news, for instance----”
“Good news, hey?” mused Jeff, his bony hands supporting his leathern
face as he cogitated. “Good news? H’m!”
“Yes,” returned Stair, “that, or something pleasant to look forward
to. When she’s well enough, you might take her to Duneka, or
somewhere, for a little outing. Tell her so. It may brighten her
to----”
“Nope,” dissented Jeff. “It wouldn’t. I tried, to-day. Told her she
must git well, right smart, now; so’s we c’d have a ja’ntin’,
somewheres. She said she was so tired, she reckoned she’d jest stay
quiet to home a spell. It didn’t brace her, a wee peckle. Funny, too!
’Cause jest before she was took sick, she an’ me was projectin’, a
hull lot, on a trip we was plannin’ to make. She’d got her heart real
sot on it--’count of suthin’ she’d read into the Duneka _Chron’cle_.
The fall County Fair is on, to Duneka, this week, you know. An’ the
_Chron’cle_ told how they’re lottin’ on holdin’ the State dawg-show
there, the fourth day of the fair. That’s the day after to-morror. The
_Chron’cle_ said there was to be reel silver cups offered fer best
dawgs of a lot of breeds. Collies was one of the breeds it spoke
about.”
“Well?” asked Stair, in no special interest, as Jeff paused.
“Wal,” went on the mountaineer sheepishly, “you-all know how much
store Eve sets by Robin, here. She thinks he’s jest the finest dawg on
this yer planet. She was a-sayin’ there couldn’t be no finer dawg in
the collie bunch, at the show, than what Robin is. An’ she was honin’
fer us to take him down there an’ let him git a chance at that silver
cup. Wal, whatever Eve hones fer, she’s a-goin’ to git--if it’s
gittable an’ if I’m in reach to git it fer her. So I ’greed we’d take
Robin to the show. She was all het up over the idee of a-gittin’ that
’ere cup. An’ she was a-sayin’ how grand it’d be to have the paper
print Robin’s name as winnin’ it, so’s she c’d send a copy of the
paper to her folks, down Looeyville way, an’ all that. Wal, that’s all
there is to it,” he ended with a loud sigh.
“Why is that all there is to it?” demanded Stair with sudden
inspiration. “Why can’t you take the dog down to the show yourself,
if he really has a chance for the cup? That cup, and the notice in the
paper, would do more to stir Eve up and to renew her interest in life
than any other good news I can think of. And it’ll be something to
look forward to. Go ahead and do it!”
“Good! Oh, _good_!” exulted a feeble little voice in the room behind
them.
Eve had waked, during their talk. And, in her tones, as she applauded
the plan, rang the first interest she had shown since the beginning of
her illness. Stair, listening, shut his thin lips on a belated
objection that had come into his mind while the mountaineer was
applauding his chance suggestion.
It had just occurred to the circuit-rider that if Robin should not be
adjudged worthy of the cup, the disappointment was likely to do the
invalid more harm than a week of nursing could counteract. But it was
too late to voice that warning now. Eve had heard. Eve was
pathetically eager over the scheme. And, kicking himself mentally for
his own impulsiveness, the clergyman held his peace.
He knew nothing about dogs, from a show standpoint--and mightily he
hoped Eve’s estimate of her pet might be correct. But he doubted--more
and more, he doubted. Collies, fit to win silver cups, do not often
find their way into the mountaineer cabins in the Kentucky hinterland.
Timidly, Stair sought to wet-blanket the venture. But again he was too
late. At last Eve had the desired “interest in life,” an interest that
threatened to bring back her fever. The dog-show virus is potent, as
any exhibitor can testify. It has a mystic lure. Jeff, once he grasped
the idea, was swept off his feet by it.
* * * * *
The fall County Fair at Duneka had begun its fourth day. That day’s
star feature was to be the “all breeds” dog-show, to be held in the
Agricultural Building.
A gratifying number of dogs was benched in the main hall of the
ramshackle structure; early on the morning of the show. Two stewards
were busy receiving the fast-arriving entrants, assigning to them
their places in the double aisles of wire-partitioned and
straw-littered “benches,” and assessing late-comers the usual extra
fees for “post-entries.”
To these grievously overworked functionaries, in the thick of their
labours, appeared a lanky farmer of the true mountaineer type. He was
clad in store-clothes that sat on his angular figure as might a
horse-blanket on a washboard. By a rope, the hill-billy led a large
and shaggy dog whose rough, tawny coat had been washed and brushed
until it shone like bronze and fluffed out like the hair of a
Circassian beauty.
“Collie dawg,” announced Jeff, “owned by Miz Jeff Titus. Entered for
the silver cup.”
Patiently the stewards explained to him that a dog must be entered for
one or more of the show’s regular classes, and that the coveted silver
cup was to go to the collie adjudged best in the whole show. They also
informed Jeff that as his was a post-entry, it would cost him an extra
fifty cents to exhibit his dog. He was told that in addition to this
it would cost him a dollar for every class in which he might enter
Robin.
As most of this was Greek to the puzzled exhibitor, one of the
stewards asked if the dog had ever before been shown. On receiving a
negative answer he took one look at the uninterested Robin and
suggested he be entered for the “novice class,” alone.
As soon as he could be made to understand that a collie winning, in
the novice class, would stand as good a chance for the cup as would
any other, Titus paid over his money and led Robin to the stall in the
collie section corresponding to the number the steward had tied to the
dog’s collar.
After mooring Robin’s rope to the ring in his wire-partitioned bench,
and getting him some water, Jeff had leisure to take in his odd
surroundings.
Dogs--_dogs_--DOGS! Everywhere dogs--more dogs than Jeff had known
existed--dogs of all breeds and sizes, from Peke to St. Bernard. The
iron-girdered roof was re-echoing with their clangour. They were
barking or yapping in fifty different keys, but all with the same
earnestness.
Jeff saw that each breed had a bench-section to itself. In the hall’s
centre, to which the bench aisles converged, were two wood-and-wire
inclosures in each of which were a low central platform and a corner
table and a chair. On the tables were neat piles of red and yellow and
blue ribbons alongside a record-ledger. Handlers were everywhere busy
making their pets ready for the judging.
Crowds of onlookers had already begun to filter through the aisles.
Jeff heard someone say that the judging was about to begin, and that
collies were to be among the first breeds shown.
His general curiosity sated, Titus fell to examining the dogs which
were to be Robin’s competitors. And at once his mountaineer scowl
merged into a grin. Here, forsooth, was nothing wherewith the splendid
Robin need fear comparison.
Why, of all the nineteen collies on exhibition, there was not one
within three inches of Robin’s height, nor one which bore any real
resemblance to him. These others were strongly slender chaps, with
thin heads and tapering noses and tulip ears and slant eyes. Whereas,
Robin’s mighty head was almost as broad and heavy as a Newfoundland’s;
his ears were pricked like a wolf’s, and his honest brown eyes were
large and round. No, most assuredly he was not in the very least like
any other collie entered in the show--or in any exhibition of
thoroughbreds since the birth of time.
Poor old Robin Adair was probably more collie than anything else; he
may even have been a shade more than half-collie. But in his veins ran
also the mixed blood of many another breed, Newfoundland
predominating.
“Look over there!” Jeff heard a dapper collie-handler in a linen
duster say in guarded tones to a woman who was sifting talcum powder
into her gold-and-white collie pup’s fluffy coat. “Over at Bench 89!
What is that Thing? A dog--or a hippopotamus?”
As the woman turned to observe the luckless Robin, Jeff Titus strolled
across to the man who had called her attention to the dog. His eyes
were glinting flares behind their lowered lids, and his lips twisted
into something which looked like a smile and wasn’t. He said softly:
“Beggin’ you-all’s pardon, mister, what was you a-happenin’ to call my
dawg?”
The man in the linen duster gave one glance at the leathern face
peering down so intensely into his. Then, shakily, he made reply:
“I--I wasn’t speaking of your dog, sir. I was speaking of the dog in
the next bench to his. I--I read the number wrong. Yours is--a--a
grand--a grand--collie, sir.”
He gulped, and sped down the aisles on a new-remembered errand
somewhere. Jeff turned back to Robin, his mind freed of its momentary
angry doubt.
The collie classes were called a few minutes later. The first to be
judged were, as usual, the male puppies. Jeff, watching the
performance of the entrants, saw how the judging was done. First the
dogs were made to march around the ring. Then, in ones or twos, they
were placed on the platform while the little tweed-clad judge studied
them and felt them all over. After that, the judge wrote certain
numbers in the ring-steward’s book and handed to the owner of the
winning dog a blue ribbon. A red ribbon went to the owner of the
second best, a yellow ribbon to the third, and a white ribbon to the
fourth.
Every one of the several collie classes, it seemed, must be judged in
that same deliberate way; before the winners of all classes could
compete for a rosette, whose acquisition meant also the winning of
the silver cup. Jeff began to chafe at the needless delay which must
ensue before Robin could receive his merited prize.
Then, directly after the judging of the puppies, came the novice
class. Along with only two other entries, Jeff Titus led the
majestically unconcerned Robin into the ring. As he passed, a titter
swept the quadruple line of railbirds outside the inclosure. Jeff did
not so much as look about him to locate the cause of the mirth. These
fool city-folks were always laughing at nothing.
Nor did he note the glare, almost of horror, which the little
tweed-clad judge bestowed upon Robin; as Eve’s adored pet paced into
the ring. The judge eyed him with much the expression one might expect
to see in the visage of a Supreme Court justice who has been asked to
hand down an official opinion on a nursery rhyme.
“Walk your dogs, please!” rasped the judge.
The parade started. Robin strolled unconcernedly at his lanky master’s
side. As he was not a thoroughbred, his nerves were not of the
hair-trigger order. The racket and the crowd and the new surroundings
did not excite or terrify or make him profoundly miserable; as they
did some of the high-strung collies about him. Jeff observed this calm
demeanour and was proud of his dog’s bearing.
The parade was halted. The judge motioned Robin’s two competitors to
the platform, squinted at them for a moment, ran his hand over them,
examined the spring of their ribs, then their teeth, and various other
details,--stood back and studied them--then handed to the owner of one
a blue ribbon and to the other a red. The third-prize yellow ribbon he
tossed back onto the steward’s table.
The winners of the first and second prizes departed with their
collies. The steward chalked up the next class on the blackboard. But
Jeff Titus did not leave the ring. Eyes bulging, cheeks slowly turning
from tan to brick-hue, he strode over to the judge.
“Look-a-here, you!” he rumbled in a blend of wrath and dazed
incredulity. “What’s the meanin’ of this-yer? Are you aimin’ to
doublecross me? My dawg’s wuth ten of them ornery critters. He’s a
heap bigger’n an’ huskier, an’ he’s purtier to look at, too! What the
blue blazes do you-all mean by treatin’ him thisaway, you hard-biled
shrimp? He----”
With much dignity the little judge turned his back on the angry Titus
and started across the ring. But before he had gone two steps Jeff was
once more confronting him.
“Look-a-here!” snarled Titus, again, striving to keep himself in hand,
“I ain’t goin’ to lay down under no frame-up! You judged crooked,
with my dawg. I c’n prove it. Even if you didn’t have the sense to see
he was the best of the hull bilin’, you was bound, anyhow, to give him
the yaller ribbon fer third prize. An----”
“I was bound to do nothing of the sort!” rapped out the exasperated
judge. “I am here to judge collies, not dinosaurs. I refuse to
countenance the claim that your dog is a collie, by giving him a
third-prize ribbon; even in a class of three. So, in this class, I
have deliberately withheld the third prize. Your dog is not a collie.
The Lord alone knows what he is, but he’s no collie. That’s all. Clear
out!”
For a man with heart or imagination, there is no ordeal more irksome
than to judge dogs. For, in almost every division, there is some such
beast as Robin Adair;--a dog loved by his owners, who know nothing of
shows or of show points. A judge, in fairness to the better exhibits,
must pass over these poor animals; and thereby must cause heartache
and shame to their pathetic owners. It is not a pleasant task. Nor is
any phase of dog-judging pleasant. It is a thankless and nerve-racking
job, at best; and it has a magic quality of turning one’s friends into
enemies.
The little judge at the Duneka show was hardened by long practice.
Also, he had all the bristling pluck of a rat-terrier. And he needed
it in facing this lean giant in whose slit-eyes the murder-light was
beginning to smoulder. Jeff half extended one windmill arm in the
general direction of the judge’s throat. Then he checked himself.
* * * * *
It was going to be bad enough to slink home with no cup, but it would
be ten-fold worse to go to the hoosgow for mayhem. He pictured sick
Eve’s grief over such a disgrace, and his clenched hand dropped again
to his side. Grappling with his temper, the mountaineer wheeled about
and led the disqualified Robin out of the ring and back to the bench.
A sweet mess he had made of everything; he and that parson, up yonder!
They had wrought on Eve’s hopes and had made her so gloriously
confident that her dear dog was going to sweep all before him and win
the cup! She was lying at home, this minute, her big eyes shining with
anticipation, her vivid mind picturing the triumph-scene at the show.
How confidently she would be waiting for that cup!
Jeff had sought so enthusiastically to work out Stair’s theory of a
“good news” cure! And how was the experiment to result? He must go
home on the morrow and tell Eve not only that he had no cup to show
her, but that the judge had actually refused Robin a third-prize
ribbon, on the ground that the dog was a mongrel! What effect was that
news going to have on a sick woman whose swift recovery depended on
her spirits?
Knowing Eve as he did, Jeff was ready to believe it would undo most of
her hard-won convalescence. And at the very least, in her weak state,
it was certain to make her cry. Jeff would rather have faced a
machine-gun nest than make his gallant little sweetheart cry.
He began to swear, very softly but very, very zealously. And then his
resourceful mountaineer brain unlimbered and went into action.
Presently, he arose from the bench, patted Robin absentmindedly on the
head and slouched off towards the end of the hall, where, in a high
glass case, were displayed the prize cups and the other trophies.
Long and minutely he scanned the glittering prizes, especially the cup
engraved “Best Collie.” And he spelled out the printed legend over the
case--which proclaimed that the cups were supplied by the long-famous
jewellery firm of Pinkus Bernstein, of Republic Street, Duneka,
Kentucky.
Ten minutes later, leaving Robin to shift for himself on his bench,
Jeff was hiking towards the business streets of the mountain
metropolis. He paused, for a space, at the bank, where he had a
carefully scraped-together little account, and he drew forth a goodly
share of that sum. Then he made his way to the jewellery-store. After
a half-hour of dickering, he emerged from the shop, bearing a bumpy
parcel.
Returning to the Agricultural Hall, he seated himself once more on the
narrow bench beside the exultantly welcoming Robin, and proceeded to
unwind the tissue wrappings of his package. Robin looked on in mild
curiosity. His sense of smell had already told the dog that the parcel
contained nothing of vital interest to him. Yet, because he had been
lonely and a little worried by Jeff’s long absence, Robin evinced a
polite concern in the undoing of the wrappings.
The last layer of paper was removed. To the dog’s view was exposed a
huge and gleaming silver cup, a cup with much chasing on its polished
surface and with three handles and an ebony base. It was at least
double the size of the cup offered by the committee for “best collie.”
“See that?” questioned Titus, holding the trophy aloft for Robin’s
inspection. “Forty-one dollars, that set me back. An’ it’d a’ been a
heap more, only it was a left-over, an’ had that one little gouge
under the aidge. Robin, if that cup don’t tickle her, suthin’
terrible, I’m a clay-eater! You-all won this yer vase, to-day, Robin;
by bein’ ‘best collie.’ Jes’ keep a-rememberin’ that. I ain’t never
put nothin’ over on her, b’fore. You-all knows that, Robbie. But--I
reckon it’s wuth doin’, this yer time. She----”
He paused in his low-pitched confidence to the blinking, sympathising
dog. Two men had halted just in front of him. One of them was carrying
an apparatus which movie-camp memories told Jeff was a camera.
It chanced to be a moment when no less than two “Winners’ Classes”
were on in the showrings. Accordingly the ring-sides were banked deep
with onlookers, and this secluded section of the aisles was almost
wholly stripped of spectators. That was why Jeff had ventured to bring
forth the cup from its wrappings. The sight of the two keenly
interested men set him to scowling in dire embarrassment.
* * * * *
The chairman of the dog-show committee was also one of the chief
stockholders of the Duneka _Chronicle_. Wherefore, the dictum had gone
forth to the _Chronicle_ city-room that the show was to be played up,
big, in both morning and evening editions. And the paper’s best
descriptive writer, one Graham, had been assigned to do some
“human-interest stuff” about it, in addition to the sporting editor’s
regulation account.
Graham was a good reporter, and he had a genius for human-interest
yarns. But of dogs he knew little, and of dog-shows he knew even less.
Yet, gleaning such information on the subject as he could, he had set
forth for the show this morning; taking along the paper’s sole
photographer.
After pausing near the front entrance to accustom their ears to the
frightful din and to take a snapshot of the trophy-case, the two
newspaper men had wandered down the first aisle into which their
non-enthusiastic feet had chanced to stray. There, suddenly, Graham
saw one of the “human-interest bits” for which he was always hunting.
Midway in an aisle labelled COLLIE SECTION sat a tired man, a typical
mountaineer, beside a huge collie. And to the civilly interested dog
the mountaineer was exhibiting pridefully a silver cup; larger than
any in the trophy-case. He was talking to the dog, too, in a
confidential whisper; evidently telling the collie what a splendid
victory he had scored and how proud of him his master was.
Here was human-interest stuff, if ever Graham had seen it!
* * * * *
“Cup for best collie in the show?” asked Graham of the scowling
hill-billy.
“Yep!” snapped Jeff Titus, defiantly.
“Good boy!” exclaimed Graham, seeking by effusive geniality to break
down the mountaineer’s surly reserve. “He’s sure one peach of a dog!
What’s his name? And what’s yours?”
“His name,” said Jeff with perilous courtesy, “is Robin--Robin Adair.
He b’longs to my wife, Miz Jeff Titus--up Keytesville-way. She’s sick,
to home. I’m showin’ him fer her. Got any more questions to pester me
with, b’fore----”
“Would you mind holding up the cup, a second?” wheedled Graham,
scribbling with a chewed pencil on a doubled wad of copy paper. “So!
Thanks!”
Still defiantly, Jeff had held forward the cup for inspection, his
free arm around the majestic Robin’s shoulders. The camera clicked.
Titus did not hear it, through the noise of a hundred barks and yelps.
Besides, he was focusing his indignant attention on this slick-spoken
opponent of his.
“Wal?” he demanded truculently. “Anything more you-all wants o’ me?
He’s _our_ dawg. An’ he’s good enough for _us_. If you-all don’t like
him none----”
“But I do!” effused Graham. “A great dog, Mr. Titus! And”--his eye
running along the collie section--“he must be close to championship
standard, to have beaten all of these beauties. I’d like to ask
you----”
“I ain’t got nothin’ more to say!” growled Jeff, half rising, and his
yellow eyetooth began to show under his upcurling lip. “An’ if you-all
is aimin’ to start trouble ’bout this yer cup----”
Graham was not aiming to start trouble. Not at all did he like the new
expression, nor the voice, of this sulking hill-billy he had sought to
patronise. With a signal to the photographer he moved rapidly away,
continuing his progress down the aisle.
* * * * *
Jeff glared after him. If the man were going to inform the committee
that Titus had bought a cup when he had not been able to win one, why,
let him do it! Jeff wasn’t going to run away. So he held his ground,
feeling very wrathful, but somewhat scared. He restored the cup to its
wrappings. It would be handier to carry it, that way, should he be
ejected from the show on account of his fraud.
But no one ejected him. Except that people paused now and then,
through the course of the day, to stare amusedly at poor Robin (and to
straighten their faces in comical haste as they encountered Jeff’s
glower), no one molested Titus.
At four in the afternoon Jeff’s raw nerves could stand the strain no
longer. Untying Robin from the bench, he led him to the entrance of
the hall. There he sought the superintendent of the show.
“When c’n me an’ my dawg git outen here an’ traipse home?” he asked.
“No dog is supposed to leave the building before ten o’clock to-night,
when the show ends,” replied the superintendent, adding with a cryptic
glance at Robin: “But I don’t think I need hold your entry to those
rules. Go when you like.”
The cup under his arm and Robin at his heels, Jeff departed. He had
come to town on mule-back, the dog running alongside. Even at the best
pace he could scarce hope to get home very much before midnight. He
had come to Duneka on the preceding day and had planned to stay until
next morning. But, already, his imagination was afire with the thought
of bursting in on Eve that very night, with the glittering trophy. So
he bent his steps towards the stable where he housed his mule.
* * * * *
Across the fair-grounds, from the cityward gate, a bevy of barelegged
newsboys was scampering, with armfuls of newspapers--copies of the
_Chronicle’s_ first afternoon edition. One of them ran past Jeff.
Jeff’s keen mountaineer eyes chanced on a dark blotch near the bottom
of the swaying sheet’s first page. With an unbelieving gasp, he
stopped short in his tracks and bawled to the fleeing newsboy to come
back.
The boy returned, holding out the paper. Jeff snatched it from him,
riveting his incredulous gaze upon that dark blotch on the front page.
The blotch, at close range, resolved itself into a two-column cut--a
picture of Robin, lying majestically at full length in his bench, his
trustful gaze fixed on the lank man who squatted beside him and who
held aloft an ornate silver cup!
Above the cut ran the caption:
“A PRIZE-WINNER AND HIS PRIZE.”
Beneath the picture were the lines:
“_Mrs. Jeff Titus’ Robin Adair; Winner of cup for Best Collie in
Show._”
Doubled, in single-column space under this, was one of the two-stick
“human-interest” stories with which Graham was wont to strew the
_Chronicle’s_ pages. Jeff’s fascinated eyes tore themselves from the
picture and caught a glimpse of his own name midway of this
explanatory yarn. He read the sentence containing the name, then the
next line or so. Slowly and painfully he spelled out:
Mr. Titus exhibited the dog for his wife, who is ill at their
Keytesville home. With characteristic mountaineer modesty, Mr.
Titus refused to sound his splendid exhibit’s praises. When
congratulated by throngs of admirers who paid homage to the
peerless Robin Adair, Mr. Titus’ sole comment on Robin’s
sensational victory was:
“He’s good enough for us!”
Robin Adair was good enough for the judges, too, and good
enough to win over one of the finest aggregations of high-bred
collies ever shown in this part of the South.
The brief story switched back to the human-interest note--to the man’s
evident rapture in the triumph of his sick wife’s pet, and his shy
pride in the magnificent cup. But Jeff read no more just then.
Whirling on the impatiently waiting newsboy, he demanded thickly:
“Gimme all them newspapers you’re totin’! An’ then scuttle off an’
fetch me a dozen more! Scat!”
Again he stared in idiotic bliss at the smudged two-column cut. What
did it matter to Jeff Titus that the picture and its erroneous caption
were to be “lifted out” of the next edition, and that Graham was to
incur the sharpest call-down of his career, for the break he had made?
Not three copies of the _Chronicle_ a week made their way to
Keytesville. And, even should the next day’s full account of the
dog-show reach the Titus region, no mountaineer in the State would
possess the technical show-lore to decipher the cryptic “summary of
wins” and thus learn of Robin’s defeat.
No: in the mountains, the printed word was accepted as gospel fact--by
those who had education to read it. And its pictures were accepted as
such by those who had not bothered to master the effete arts of
reading and writing. Jeff was going to take home enough papers to go
around the whole sparse neighbourhood, in addition to those which were
to be mailed to Eve’s people at Louisville and to any other distant
kin or friends of hers. Not in the very least did Jeff Titus
understand the meaning of this newspaper tribute. Nor did he bother
his overwrought brain about it. He had the required “good news” for
Eve. He had printed and pictured proofs thereof. If this didn’t help
along her tardy cure, by leaps and bounds--
“I ain’t never lied to her yet, Robin!” he informed the prize-winner
as they ambled homeward at dusk over the purpling miles of hilly
trail. “Nor yet I don’t aim to, now. We’ll walk in on her, with the
cup. An’ when she asks, all pleased an’ tickled-like, ‘Why, whatever
is this yer fer?’ we’ll jest stick a copy of the noospaper up in front
of her. I’m bettin’ the R’cordin’ Angel is due to strain his pore ears
till they ache him, if he ‘lots on ketchin’ _me_ tellin’ a lie to that
Gawd-blessed gal!”
“ONE MINUTE LONGER”
Wolf was a collie, red-gold and white of coat, with a shape more like
his long-ago wolf ancestors’ than like a domesticated dog’s. It was
from this ancestral throw-back that he was named Wolf.
He looked not at all like his great sire, Sunnybank Lad, nor like his
dainty, thoroughbred mother, Lady. Nor was he like them in any other
way, except that he inherited old Lad’s staunchly gallant spirit and
loyalty, and uncanny brain. No, in traits as well as in looks, he was
more wolf than dog. He almost never barked, his snarl supplying all
vocal needs.
The Mistress or the Master or the Boy--any of these three could romp
with him, roll him over, tickle him, or subject him to all sorts of
playful indignities. And Wolf entered gleefully into the fun of the
romp. But let any human, besides these three, lay a hand on his
slender body, and a snarling plunge for the offender’s throat was
Wolf’s invariable reply to the caress.
It had been so since his puppyhood. He did not fly at accredited
guests, nor, indeed, pay any heed to their presence, so long as they
kept their hands off him. But to all of these the Boy was forced to
say at the very outset of the visit:
“Pat Lad and Bruce all you want to, but please leave Wolf alone. He
doesn’t care for people. We’ve taught him to stand for a pat on the
head, from guests,--but don’t touch his body.”
Then, to prove his own immunity, the Boy would proceed to tumble Wolf
about, to the delight of them both.
In romping with humans whom they love, most dogs will bite, more or
less gently,--or pretend to bite,--as a part of the game. Wolf never
did this. In his wildest and roughest romps with the Boy or with the
Boy’s parents, Wolf did not so much as open his mighty jaws. Perhaps
because he dared not trust himself to bite gently. Perhaps because he
realised that a bite is not a joke, but an effort to kill.
There had been only one exception to Wolf’s hatred for mauling at
strangers’ hands. A man came to The Place on a business call, bringing
along a chubby two-year-old daughter. The Master warned the baby that
she must not go near Wolf, although she might pet any of the other
collies. Then he became so much interested in the business talk that
he and his guest forgot all about the child.
Ten minutes later the Master chanced to shift his gaze to the far end
of the room. And he broke off, with a gasp, in the very middle of a
sentence.
The baby was seated astride Wolf’s back, her tiny heels digging into
the dog’s sensitive ribs, and each of her chubby fists gripping one of
his ears. Wolf was lying there, with an idiotically happy grin on his
face and wagging his tail in ecstasy.
No one knew why he had submitted to the baby’s tugging hands, except
because she _was_ a baby, and because the gallant heart of the dog had
gone out to her helplessness.
Wolf was the official watch-dog of The Place; and his name carried
dread to the loafers and tramps of the region. Also, he was the Boy’s
own special dog. He had been born on the Boy’s tenth birthday, five
years before this story of ours begins; and ever since then the two
had been inseparable chums.
One sloppy afternoon in late winter, Wolf and the Boy were sprawled,
side by side, on the fur rug in front of the library fire. The
Mistress and the Master had gone to town for the day. The house was
lonely, and the two chums were left to entertain each other.
The Boy was reading a magazine. The dog beside him was blinking in
drowsy comfort at the fire. Presently, finishing the story he had
been reading, the Boy looked across at the sleepy dog.
“Wolf,” he said, “here’s a story about a dog. I think he
must have been something like you. Maybe he was your
great-great-great-great-grandfather. He lived an awfully long time
ago--in Pompeii. Ever hear of Pompeii?”
Now, the Boy was fifteen years old, and he had too much sense to
imagine that Wolf could possibly understand the story he was about to
tell him. But, long since, he had fallen into a way of talking to his
dog, sometimes, as if to another human. It was fun for him to note the
almost pathetic eagerness wherewith Wolf listened and tried to grasp
the meaning of what he was saying. Again and again, at sound of some
familiar word or voice inflection, the collie would pick up his ears
or wag his tail, as if in the joyous hope that he had at last found a
clue to his owner’s meaning.
“You see,” went on the Boy, “this dog lived in Pompeii, as I told you.
You’ve never been there, Wolf.”
Wolf was looking up at the Boy in wistful excitement, seeking vainly
to guess what was expected of him.
“And,” continued the Boy, “the kid who owned him seems to have had a
regular knack for getting into trouble all the time. And his dog was
always on hand to get him out of it. It’s a true story, the magazine
says. The kid’s father was so grateful to the dog that he bought him a
solid silver collar. Solid silver! Get that, Wolfie?”
Wolf did not “get it.” But he wagged his tail hopefully, his eyes
alight with bewildered interest.
“And,” said the Boy, “what do you suppose was engraved on the collar?
Well, I’ll tell you: ‘_This dog has thrice saved his little master
from death. Once by fire, once by flood, and once at the hands of
robbers!_’ How’s that for a record, Wolf? For _one_ dog, too!”
At the words “Wolf” and “dog,” the collie’s tail smote the floor in
glad comprehension. Then he edged closer to the Boy as the narrator’s
voice presently took on a sadder note.
“But at last,” resumed the Boy, “there came a time when the dog
couldn’t save the kid. Mount Vesuvius erupted. All the sky was
pitch-dark, as black as midnight, and Pompeii was buried under lava
and ashes. The dog could easily have got away by himself,--dogs can
see in the dark, can’t they, Wolf?--but he couldn’t get the kid away.
And he wouldn’t go without him. You wouldn’t have gone without me,
either, would you, Wolf? Pretty nearly two thousand years later, some
people dug through the lava that covered Pompeii. What do you suppose
they found? Of course they found a whole lot of things. One of them
was that dog--silver collar and inscription and all. He was lying at
the feet of a child. The child he couldn’t save. He was one grand
dog--hey, Wolf?”
The continued strain of trying to understand began to get on the
collie’s high-strung nerves. He rose to his feet, quivering, and
sought to lick the Boy’s face, thrusting one upraised white forepaw at
him in appeal for a handshake. The Boy slammed shut the magazine.
“It’s slow in the house, here, with nothing to do,” he said to his
chum. “I’m going up the lake with my gun to see if any wild ducks have
landed in the marshes yet. It’s almost time for them. Want to come
along?”
The last sentence Wolf understood perfectly. On the instant he was
dancing with excitement at the prospect of a walk. Being a collie, he
was of no earthly help in a hunting-trip; but, on such tramps, as
everywhere else, he was the Boy’s inseparable companion.
Out over the slushy snow the two started, the Boy with his light
single-barrelled shotgun slung over one shoulder, the dog trotting
close at his heels. The March thaw was changing to a sharp freeze. The
deep and soggy snow was crusted over, just thick enough to make
walking a genuine difficulty for both dog and Boy.
The Place was a promontory that ran out into the lake, on the opposite
bank from the mile-distant village. Behind, across the highroad, lay
the winter-choked forest. At the lake’s northerly end, two miles
beyond The Place, were the reedy marshes where, a month hence, wild
duck would congregate. Thither, with Wolf, the Boy ploughed his way
through the biting cold.
The going was heavy and heavier. A quarter-mile below the marshes the
Boy struck out across the upper corner of the lake. Here the ice was
rotten at the top, where the thaw had nibbled at it, but beneath it
was still a full eight inches thick; easily strong enough to bear the
Boy’s weight.
Along the grey ice-field the two plodded. The skim of water, which the
thaw had spread an inch thick over the ice, had frozen in the day’s
cold spell. It crackled like broken glass as the chums walked over it.
The Boy had on big hunting-boots. So, apart from the extra effort, the
glass-like ice did not bother him. To Wolf it gave acute pain. The
sharp particles were forever getting between the callous black pads of
his feet, pricking and cutting him acutely.
Little smears of blood began to mark the dog’s course; but it never
occurred to Wolf to turn back, or to betray by any sign that he was
suffering. It was all a part of the day’s work--a cheap price to pay
for the joy of tramping with his adored young master.
Then, forty yards or so on the hither side of the marshes, Wolf beheld
a right amazing phenomenon. The Boy had been walking directly in front
of him, gun over shoulder. With no warning at all, the youthful hunter
fell, feet foremost, out of sight, through the ice.
The light shell of new-frozen water that covered the lake’s thicker
ice also masked an air-hole nearly three feet wide. Into this, as he
strode carelessly along, the Boy had stepped. Straight down he had
gone, with all the force of his hundred-and-twenty pounds and with all
the impetus of his forward stride.
Instinctively, he threw out his hands to restore his balance. The only
effect of this was to send the gun flying ten feet away.
Down went the Boy through less than three feet of water (for the
bottom of the lake at this point had started to slope upward towards
the marshes) and through nearly two feet more of sticky marsh mud that
underlay the lake-bed.
His outflung hands struck against the ice on the edges of the
air-hole, and clung there.
Sputtering and gurgling, the Boy brought his head above the surface
and tried to raise himself by his hands, high enough to wriggle out
upon the surface of the ice. Ordinarily, this would have been simple
enough for so strong a lad. But the glue-like mud had imprisoned his
feet and the lower part of his legs; and held them powerless.
Try as he would, the Boy could not wrench himself free of the slough.
The water, as he stood upright, was on a level with his mouth. The
air-hole was too wide for him, at such a depth, to get a good purchase
on its edges and lift himself bodily to safety.
Gaining such a finger-hold as he could, he heaved with all his might,
throwing every muscle of his body into the struggle. One leg was
pulled almost free of the mud, but the other was driven deeper into
it. And, as the Boy’s fingers slipped from the smoothly wet ice-edge,
the attempt to restore his balance drove the free leg back, knee-deep
into the mire.
Ten minutes of this hopeless fighting left the Boy panting and tired
out. The icy water was numbing his nerves and chilling his blood into
torpidity. His hands were without sense of feeling, as far up as the
wrists. Even if he could have shaken free his legs from the mud, now,
he had not strength enough left to crawl out of the hole.
He ceased his uselessly frantic battle and stood dazed. Then he came
sharply to himself. For, as he stood, the water crept upward from his
lips to his nostrils. He knew why the water seemed to be rising. It
was not rising. It was he who was sinking. As soon as he stopped
moving, the mud began, very slowly, but very steadily, to suck him
downward.
This was not a quicksand, but it was a deep mud-bed. And only by
constant motion could he avoid sinking farther and farther down into
it. He had less than two inches to spare, at best, before the water
should fill his nostrils; less than two inches of life, even if he
could keep the water down to the level of his lips.
There was a moment of utter panic. Then the Boy’s brain cleared. His
only hope was to keep on fighting--to rest when he must, for a moment
or so, and then to renew his numbed grip on the ice-edge and try to
pull his feet a few inches higher out of the mud. He must do this as
long as his chilled body could be scourged into obeying his will.
He struggled again, but with virtually no result in raising himself. A
second struggle, however, brought him chin-high above the water. He
remembered confusedly that some of these earlier struggles had scarce
budged him, while others had gained him two or three inches. Vaguely,
he wondered why. Then turning his head, he realised.
Wolf, as he turned, was just loosing his hold on the wide collar of
the Boy’s mackinaw. His cut forepaws were still braced against a flaw
of ragged ice on the air-hole’s edge, and all his tawny body was
tense.
His body was dripping wet, too. The Boy noted that; and he realised
that the repeated effort to draw his master to safety must have
resulted, at least once, in pulling the dog down into the water with
the floundering Boy.
“Once more, Wolfie! _Once more!_” chattered the Boy through teeth that
clicked together like castanets.
The dog darted forward, caught his grip afresh on the edge of the
Boy’s collar, and tugged with all his fierce strength; growling and
whining ferociously the while.
The Boy seconded the collie’s tuggings by a supreme struggle that
lifted him higher than before. He was able to get one arm and shoulder
clear. His numb fingers closed about an upthrust tree-limb which had
been washed down stream in the autumn freshets and had been frozen
into the lake ice.
With this new purchase, and aided by the dog, the boy tried to drag
himself out of the hole. But the chill of the water had done its work.
He had not the strength to move farther. The mud still sucked at his
calves and ankles. The big hunting-boots were full of water that
seemed to weigh a ton.
He lay there, gasping and chattering. Then, through the gathering
twilight, his eyes fell on the gun, lying ten feet away.
“Wolf!” he ordered, nodding towards the weapon. “Get it! _Get_ it!”
Not in vain had the Boy talked to Wolf, for years, as if the dog were
human. At the words and the nod, the collie trotted over to the gun,
lifted it by the stock, and hauled it awkwardly along over the bumpy
ice to his master, where he laid it down at the edge of the air-hole.
The dog’s eyes were cloudy with trouble, and he shivered and whined as
with ague. The water on his thick coat was freezing to a mass of ice.
But it was from anxiety that he shivered, and not from cold.
Still keeping his numb grasp on the tree-branch, the boy balanced
himself as best he could, and thrust two fingers of his free hand into
his mouth to warm them into sensation again.
When this was done, he reached out to where the gun lay, and pulled
its trigger. The shot boomed deafeningly through the twilight winter
silences. The recoil sent the weapon sliding sharply back along the
ice, spraining the Boy’s trigger finger and cutting it to the bone.
“That’s all I can do,” said the Boy to himself. “If anyone hears it,
well and good. I can’t get at another cartridge. I couldn’t put it
into the breech if I had it. My hands are too numb.”
For several endless minutes he clung there, listening. But this was a
desolate part of the lake, far from any road; and the season was too
early for other hunters to be abroad. The bitter cold, in any case,
tended to make sane folk hug the fireside rather than to venture so
far into the open. Nor was the single report of a gun uncommon enough
to call for investigation in such weather.
All this the Boy told himself, as the minutes dragged by. Then he
looked again at Wolf. The dog, head on one side, still stood
protectingly above him. The dog was cold and in pain. But, being only
a dog, it did not occur to him to trot off home to the comfort of the
library fire and leave his master to fend for himself.
Presently, with a little sigh, Wolf lay down on the ice, his nose
across the Boy’s arm. Even if he lacked strength to save his beloved
master, he could stay and share the Boy’s sufferings.
But the Boy himself thought otherwise. He was not at all minded to
freeze to death, nor was he willing to let Wolf imitate the dog of
Pompeii by dying helplessly at his master’s side. Controlling for an
instant the chattering of his teeth, he called:
“Wolf!”
The dog was on his feet again at the word; alert, eager.
“Wolf!” repeated the Boy. “_Go!_ Hear me? _Go!_”
He pointed homeward.
Wolf stared at him, hesitant. Again the Boy called in vehement
command, “_Go!_”
The collie lifted his head to the twilight sky with a wolf-howl
hideous in its grief and appeal--a howl as wild and discordant as that
of any of his savage ancestors. Then, stooping first to lick the numb
hand that clung to the branch, Wolf turned and fled.
Across the cruelly sharp film of ice he tore, at top speed, head down;
whirling through the deepening dusk like a flash of tawny light.
Wolf understood what was wanted of him. Wolf always understood. The
pain in his feet was as nothing. The stiffness of his numbed body was
forgotten in the urgency for speed.
The Boy looked drearily after the swift-vanishing figure which the
dusk was swallowing. He knew the dog would try to bring help; as has
many another and lesser dog in times of need. Whether or not that help
could arrive in time, or at all, was a point on which the Boy would
not let himself dwell. Into his benumbed brain crept the memory of an
old Norse proverb he had read in school:
“_Heroism consists in hanging on, one minute longer._”
Unconsciously he tightened his feeble hold on the tree-branch and
braced himself.
* * * * *
From the marshes to The Place was a full two miles. Despite the deep
and sticky snow, Wolf covered the distance in less than nine minutes.
He paused in front of the gate-lodge, at the highway entrance to the
drive. But the superintendent and his wife had gone to Paterson,
shopping, that afternoon.
Down the drive to the house he dashed. The maids had taken advantage
of their employers’ day in New York, to walk across the lake to the
village, to a motion-picture show.
Wise men claim that dogs have not the power to think or to reason
things out in a logical way. So perhaps it was mere chance that next
sent Wolf’s flying feet across the lake to the village. Perhaps it was
chance, and not the knowledge that where there is a village there are
people.
Again and again, in the car, he had sat upon the front seat alongside
the Mistress when she drove to the station to meet guests. There were
always people at the station. And to the station Wolf now raced.
The usual group of platform idlers had been dispersed by the cold. A
solitary baggageman was hauling a trunk and some boxes out of the
express-coop on to the platform; to be put aboard the five o’clock
train from New York.
As the baggageman passed under the clump of station lights, he came to
a sudden halt. For out of the darkness dashed a dog. Full tilt, the
animal rushed up to him and seized him by the skirt of the overcoat.
The man cried out in scared surprise. He dropped the box he was
carrying and struck at the dog, to ward off the seemingly murderous
attack. He recognised Wolf, and he knew the collie’s repute.
But Wolf was not attacking. Holding tight to the coat-skirt, he backed
away, trying to draw the man with him, and all the while whimpering
aloud like a nervous puppy.
A kick from the heavy-shod boot broke the dog’s hold on the
coat-skirt, even as a second yell from the man brought four or five
other people running out from the station waitingroom.
One of these, the telegraph operator, took in the scene at a single
glance. With great presence of mind he bawled loudly:
“MAD DOG!”
This, as Wolf, reeling from the kick, sought to gain another grip on
the coat-skirt. A second kick sent him rolling over and over on the
tracks, while other voices took up the panic cry of “Mad dog!”
Now, a mad dog is supposed to be a dog afflicted by rabies. Once in
ten thousand times, at the very most, a mad-dog hue-and-cry is
justified. Certainly not oftener. A harmless and friendly dog loses
his master on the street. He runs about, confused and frightened,
looking for the owner he has lost. A boy throws a stone at him. Other
boys chase him. His tongue hangs out, and his eyes glaze with terror.
Then some fool bellows:
“Mad dog!”
And the cruel chase is on--a chase that ends in the pitiful victim’s
death. Yes, in every crowd there is a voice ready to raise that
asinine and murderously cruel shout.
So it was with the men who witnessed Wolf’s frenzied effort to take
aid to the imperilled Boy.
Voice after voice repeated the cry. Men groped along the platform edge
for stones to throw. The village policeman ran puffingly upon the
scene, drawing his revolver.
Finding it useless to make a further attempt to drag the baggageman to
the rescue, Wolf leaped back, facing the ever larger group. Back went
his head again in that hideous wolf-howl. Then he galloped away a few
yards, trotted back, howled once more, and again galloped lakeward.
All of which only confirmed the panicky crowd in the belief that they
were threatened by a mad dog. A shower of stones hurtled about Wolf as
he came back a third time to lure these dull humans into following
him.
One pointed rock smote the collie’s shoulder, glancingly, cutting it
to the bone. A shot from the policeman’s revolver fanned the fur of
his ruff, as it whizzed past.
Knowing that he faced death, he nevertheless stood his ground, not
troubling to dodge the fusillade of stones, but continuing to run
lakeward and then trot back, whining with excitement.
A second pistol-shot flew wide. A third grazed the dog’s hip. From all
directions people were running towards the station. A man darted into
a house next door, and emerged carrying a shotgun. This he steadied on
the veranda-rail not forty feet away from the leaping dog, and made
ready to fire.
It was then the train from New York came in. And, momentarily, the
sport of “mad-dog” killing was abandoned, while the crowd scattered to
each side of the track.
From a front car of the train the Mistress and the Master emerged into
a bedlam of noise and confusion.
“Best hide in the station, Ma’am!” shouted the telegraph operator, at
sight of the Mistress. “There is a mad dog loose out here! He’s
chasing folks around, and----”
“Mad dog!” repeated the Mistress in high contempt. “If you knew
anything about dogs, you’d know mad ones never ‘chase folks around,’
any more than diphtheria patients do. Then----”
A flash of tawny light beneath the station lamp, a scurrying of
frightened idlers, a final wasted shot from the policeman’s
pistol,--as Wolf dived headlong through the frightened crowd towards
the voice he heard and recognised.
Up to the Mistress and the Master galloped Wolf. He was bleeding, his
eyes were bloodshot, his fur was rumpled. He seized the astounded
Master’s gloved hand lightly between his teeth and sought to pull him
across the tracks and towards the lake.
The Master knew dogs. Especially he knew Wolf. And without a word he
suffered himself to be led. The Mistress and one or two inquisitive
men followed.
Presently, Wolf loosed his hold on the Master’s hand and ran on ahead,
darting back every few moments to make certain he was followed.
“_Heroism--consists--in--hanging--on--one--minute--longer_,” the Boy
was whispering deliriously to himself for the hundredth time; as Wolf
pattered up to him in triumph, across the ice, with the human rescuers
a scant ten yards behind.