RICK AND RUDDY
Washed overboard from the deck of the vessel, not long after he had been
roughly tossed into a box by the man who wanted a lucky "mascot," Ruddy
had swam ashore. The food given him by the coast guard had dulled, just
a little, the gnawing pangs of hunger, and now, as Ruddy crouched among
the sand hills, trying to find shelter from the storm, he felt the first
gleam of hope that had come to him in many a day.
"Maybe I'll find a home after all," he thought to himself, for I believe
that dogs can talk and think--not as we do, of course; perhaps sometimes
not as well, and again, perhaps, better. But they do think. And so
Ruddy, which was to be his name, as it was now his color, thought and
hoped.
The man had driven him away--so Ruddy believed, but in this he was
wrong. Very well. It was not the first time he had been driven away. He
would have to look for someone else who would feed him, or at least give
him the chance to feed himself. He would have to look for someone else
whom he might love as only a dog can love--with all his heart and being.
"I'll stay here until morning," reasoned Ruddy, dog-fashion. "It's too
dark now to see where to go, and it's raining too hard. I'll stay here
in the sand until morning, then I can see better."
Dogs do not have very good eyesight--not nearly as good as cats. In fact
a dog can not see far enough to tell his master from among a group of
other boys, if his master is more than a few hundred feet away. But if
the wind is blowing toward the dog, and he once catches a whiff of the
scent, or smell, of the boy he knows so well, he does not need eyes to
tell him what he wants to know. An eagle could not dart with any more
sureness toward an object than can a dog, once he catches the smell of
his master.
And Ruddy, like all dogs, poor of sight even in daytime, and hardly able
to see at all in the dark, knew it was useless to try to look for a
home in that blackness and storm. A cat might have found her way to
where she wanted to go, but Ruddy did not even know where to look for a
home. He was a wanderer--an outcast.
Up among the sand dunes grew clumps of tall, coarse grass. One of these
clumps would make a resting place for the dog. He found a mass of green
stems that were thicker than the others, found it by smelling his way
and feeling, rather than by sight, and then made himself a sort of nest,
by turning around and around before he curled up to lie down.
Nearly all dogs--even the tiny poodle that sleeps on a blue cushion in
some lady's parlor--turn around and around on their bed before settling
down to go to sleep. Perhaps the dogs themselves do not know why they do
this, but it is because all dogs were once wild, like wolves. In fact
dogs really come from wolves, ages back. And wild animals, going to
sleep in the woods or jungle, have to be careful of where they make
their bed. If they curled up in the first bunch of grass they came to,
they might lie down on some snake, or scorpion, which would bite them.
So, ages back, the wild dogs, little different from wolves, got in the
habit of trampling their grassy bed, walking around and around in it.
They did not do this to make it snug and cozy, as perhaps a cat might
do. They did it to trample on and drive out any snakes that might be
hidden in the grass.
And so Ruddy, before he curled up to try to go to sleep in the sedge
grass of the sand dunes, did just as his wild, wolfish ancestors had
done--he trampled the grass. Of course there were no snakes in it, but
Ruddy must make sure in the only way he knew.
"There, I guess this will do until morning," said Ruddy to himself,
thinking in dog-fashion, of course.
Then he curled up and went to sleep. He was tired from his swim to shore
through the storm, and he was still hungry. The bit of bread and meat
the coast guard had given him was hardly enough for a small kitten, and
Ruddy was quite a large puppy now. But it was the best he could get.
"Maybe, in the morning, I'll find a home," thought Ruddy. "The kind of a
home I used to have when I was very little."
And Rick, sleeping in his white bed, safe and snug and warm away from
the north-easter, awakened for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. He
heard the beat of rain on the dark window of his room.
"Maybe, when it's morning, I'll have a dog," he whispered. "I--I hope it
isn't a cat!"
Perhaps Ruddy dreamed of the happy days of his smallest puppyhood. Those
days had been happy, for he had lived them in a fine barn, with his
mother, and several other little reddish-brown puppies like himself.
They tumbled about in the straw, and there were horses that Ruddy
learned to love, in the short time he knew them, almost as much as he
loved a certain boy and girl who raced out from the big house, every
morning, to look at, laugh over and play with the puppies, of whom Ruddy
was one.
Then had come sad days, when he was sold and taken away from the
tumbling, weak-legged brothers and sisters, and the mother dog, against
whose warm flanks Ruddy loved to cuddle.
At first these changed days had not been unhappy, for Ruddy was given a
home in another barn, where there was only one horse, instead of many,
and where a man came to feed him every morning. But a tramp had stolen
Ruddy away, and then had left him behind in the woods, too lazy to take
the little dog with him.
After that Ruddy had taken part in many adventures, coming at last to
live in the slums of a city, where a man claimed him as his own. And the
man had taken Ruddy with him on the ship, and then had come a terrible
time in the storm, when the red-brown puppy was washed overboard.
All these thoughts and remembrances fleetingly came to Ruddy as he was
curled up in the sedge grass, sheltered as much as he could be sheltered
from the rain and salty spume-scattering wind.
The longest night must have an end, and so to Ruddy daylight finally
came, and, with it, the breaking of the storm. It was cold, though it
was early September, but September was being crowded off the calendar
by October, and the rays of the early sun, as the big, golden ball
seemed to rise from the heaving ocean, had little warmth in them. It was
as if the sun's rays came from a looking glass.
Cold, shivery and hungry, Ruddy crept from his nest in the grass, even
as his jungle ancestors might have crept from theirs. But there was no
warmth to greet him, and he did not know where to get any food.
"I'm certainly hungry!" said Ruddy to himself. "I wonder where I can get
something to eat?"
Down a little way from the sand dunes stretched the beach, with the surf
pounding on it. Here and there a stray fish was cast up, and, had Ruddy
known it, this might have provided a breakfast for him. But Ruddy was
not a cat. He was not specially fond of fish, and he was afraid of the
ocean--at any rate for a time. He had nearly been drowned in it, and he
did not want to go near the big waves again; at least right away. So he
turned from the beach and, heading inland, sniffed the air, with head
held as high as he could raise it.
Ruddy remembered that his mother, among the lessons she had taught him,
had told him how much depended on his nose.
"You can't tell so much about a thing by _looking_ at it as you can by
_smelling_ of it," she had said. That is why Ruddy, as all dogs do,
always smelled of anything before he ate it. His eyesight could not be
depended on, but his nose could. And now Ruddy was sniffing the air.
It was not because he wanted to eat air for his breakfast, but the air,
and the wind, which is only air in motion, might bring to him the whiff,
or smell, that would tell him where he could find food.
Now from the ocean came the smell of the salty sea. Ruddy was sure he
had had enough of that. But as he turned his nose inshore he caught the
smell of men and boys and horses--the human smell, so to speak, and he
knew that there, if anywhere, he would find something to eat.
And so, traveling on rather weak and uncertain legs, because he needed
food, Ruddy started toward the little village of Belemere, where Rick,
the boy, lived. Though, of course, Ruddy did not yet know that.
It was early, for the sun was just rising, and not many persons were up
and about. Here a milkman was going his rounds, and soon the baker would
follow, for even in the little fishing town few did their own baking, at
least of their daily bread, and there were scarcely any cows.
Ruddy looked at the rattling milk wagon. He knew what was in the cans
and bottles, and he would have loved a drink of milk. But the man on the
wagon had not time for small, brown puppies, even if he had seen Ruddy,
which perhaps he did not.
The baker, too, might have tossed him a roll, for there were many in the
wooden bin back of the seat. But the baker did not give Ruddy a thought.
And so the homeless dog walked slowly on, sniffing here and there trying
to find, in the only way he knew, something to eat. And, as luck would
have it, Ruddy turned into the yard of the house where Rick lived. There
seemed to be no one up, and so, from having been a sort of a tramp dog
in at least half of the days he had thus far lived, Ruddy trotted around
to the back door. That is where tramps--whether men or dogs--always go;
to the back door. Later on they may use the front way.
Ruddy knew at back doors there were sometimes boxes, barrels or cans
filled with what might be called food. It was not as nice as he could
have wished, but often he had found a perfectly good bone in this way--a
bone which was not too hard for his puppy teeth that were fast growing
stronger.
"I hope I find some meat this morning," thought Ruddy. "There isn't much
on a bone, lots of times it's almost bare, and I'm terribly hungry!"
He saw some cans at the back door. From one came the delicious smell of
meat, and with a joyful yelp Ruddy began nosing about it. The cover was
on the can, but Ruddy knew how to shove this off--that is if it were not
on too tightly.
But this one was tight. Push as he did with his paws and nose, Ruddy
could not uncover the can to get at the meat, the smell of which came
through a crack in the top. And then, being only a little dog--a poor,
cold, hungry puppy, Ruddy raised his head and howled. It was just as if
some small boy or girl had cried.
Sadly and mournfully Ruddy howled, because he could not shove the cover
off the garbage pail, and get at what was within. And then, with the
first echo of the hungry dog's cry dying away, the kitchen door opened
and there stood Rick.
At first the boy could scarcely believe that what he saw was real--a
small, reddish-brown dog at his doorsteps. But then, as Ruddy stopped
howling, wagged his tail and crawled to Rick's feet, the boy's eyes
sparkled in delight. He leaned down, put his arms around Ruddy's neck,
hugging him close, as only a boy can hug a dog, and Rick shouted.
"He's come! He's here! I got him!"
"What's that? Who's there? What have you got?" asked Rick's mother.
"I've got a dog!" cried Rick in ringing tones. "He came in the night. I
prayed that I'd get him, and I did! He's here! I was afraid it might be
a cat, like Mazie prayed for a doll carriage and got a cradle. But I got
a dog all right. Oh, you're my dog! You're my dog!" and then Ruddy,
looking up into the eyes of Rick, knew that he had found what he wanted
all his short life--someone to whom he could really belong!
Mrs. Dalton came to the door. She looked at Rick hugging the
reddish-brown puppy, and a troubled look came over her face.
"Where did you get him?" she asked.
"He was right here--on the steps waiting for me," answered Rick. "I
hoped he'd be here when I woke up, but I couldn't be sure. You see I
didn't pray very long--only one night."
"Richard Dalton! You didn't pray for a dog; did you?" asked his mother,
rather shocked, though she did not know exactly why.
"Course I prayed for a dog," Rick answered. "Isn't it all right to pray
for what you want?"
His mother did not answer that question.
"You can't keep him," she said.
"Why not?" and there was alarm in Rick's tone and glance as he stopped
patting the brown head and looking into the brown eyes of Ruddy. "Why
can't I keep my dog?"
"Because he isn't yours," answered his mother.
"But he came to me--in the night. Maybe he came up out of the sea, like
Mazie said. Anyhow he was here waiting for me. Course he's my dog!" and
the boy put his arms about Ruddy's neck.
"No, Rick dear," answered his mother. "This may be a nice dog, and you
may like him very much, but he must belong to someone else."
"Then couldn't I keep him 'till someone comes for him?" asked the boy.
"He likes me--look how he stays with me."
"Yes, a puppy will stay with anyone," said Mrs. Dalton. "But I don't
want you to have a dog, Rick. I'm afraid of them."
"Not this one--not--not Ruddy!" exclaimed Rick, giving the dog that name
as it seemed best to fit him. "Why he'd just love Mazie! He wouldn't
bite her and he can't scratch like a cat. Please, mother, let me keep
this dog! He's mine! He came to me in the night! He was here waiting for
me when I came down to see if I'd got one!"
Mrs. Dalton found it hard to refuse. She loved animals herself, and her
only fear of a dog was on account of little Mazie.
"Well, you may keep him until after breakfast, anyhow," she said. "I
expect he's hungry. Give him some milk, and then get washed for your own
meal."
"Couldn't he have some meat, too?" asked Rick.
"I'll see if I can find him a few scraps. Too much meat isn't good for
little dogs. Milk is better. But this isn't such a puppy as I thought at
first. I'll see what I can find for him."
And what a meal that was to half-starved Ruddy! Never had scraps of
meat, bits of bread and potato and milk tasted so good! He paused now
and then, in his eager bolting of the food, to look up at Rick and his
mother. Ruddy divided his glances of affection between them, for he did
not know to whom he owed most. He ate quickly. A dog does not need to
chew his food very much, as it is taken care of in his wonderful
stomach. In that he is not like boys and girls, who, the more they chew
their food, the better off they are.
"Oh, what you got?" cried a voice behind Rick, as he was watching his
dog eat. "What you got?"
"A dog, Mazie," answered her brother. "It's my dog! He came in the
night, and he was waiting down on the back steps for me. I prayed for
him. Did you pray too, Mazie?"
"No. I--I was going to," said the little girl, "but I was so sleepy I
forgot whether you said a dog or a cat, so I just prayed for a new doll
for me. Oh, he's a nice dog!"
"I just guess he is!" cried Rick already proud in ownership of something
real and alive and almost human. "He's my dog!"
Mrs. Dalton said nothing, but she looked over the heads of the children
toward her husband.
"So Rick's found a dog after all; has he?" spoke Mr. Dalton, as he got
ready to go to work. "Well! Well! He isn't such a bad dog, either."
"No, he seems right nice," spoke Mrs. Dalton. "But he must belong to
someone."
"He belongs to me!" declared Rick. "I don't need Henry Blake's dog now;
I got one of my own!"
The kitchen door was open. The sun was shining warmer now on the back
steps, and Ruddy wanted to lie down in that patch of yellow light, and
bask in the glow after his meal. Rick followed his new pet outside.
Sig Bailey, the coast guard, was just coming off duty, and going past
the house on his way to home and breakfast. He looked in the yard and
saw Rick patting Ruddy.
"Hello there!" called Sig. "Where'd you get my dog, Rick?"
"_Your_ dog?" cried the boy, and his heart seemed to stop beating for a
second. "Is--is this _your_ dog?"