"Shall noble fidelity, courage, and love,
Obedience and conscience--all rot in the ground?
No room be found for them beneath or above,
Nor anywhere in all the Universe round?
I cannot believe it. Creation still lives,
And the Maker of all things made nothing in vain."
Tupper.
Danger is a very suggestive name for a dog, especially when that dog
happens to be a guard-dog and a bull-terrier to boot. But such was the
name by which the hero of this brief biography was always known. The
probability is that he was descended from very ferocious ancestors;
indeed, the dog had all the external appearance of one that could both
tackle and hold, if occasion demanded any such display of his powers.
However, one should judge, not even of a dog, from first impressions.
The dog Danger did not advance very high in my estimation at our first
meeting. It wasn't love on sight with either of us. I had gone into a
shop in the dusk of a summer's evening, to buy a small guide-book, being
then on a tour through the lovely vale of Don, Aberdeenshire. I found
no one in attendance except Danger, whom I did not at once perceive. A
low ominous growl soon drew my attention to the spot where he was lying.
I could just trace the dim outline of his figure, and see two eyes that
glittered like balls of green fire. It would have been quite enough, no
doubt, to make a person unaccustomed to dogs feel uneasy, more
particularly as the shopkeeper seemed in no hurry to put in an
appearance. He came at last, though.
"Is your dog dangerous?" I asked.
"He is very far from that," was the quiet reply. "I often wish he were
a trifle more so. But his name is Danger," he added, smiling, as he lit
the gas.
I had now a better look at the animal. He certainly was no beauty, and
I thought at once of the painting by Landseer--"Jack in Office." Danger
was huge and somewhat ungainly, though not really so large as he looked.
It was his immense head, and the general cloddiness of his body, that
gave him the appearance of size. His ears were small and lopped over
gracefully, his nose was both flat and broad, and his eyes did not look
a bit more conciliatory in the light than they did in the semi-darkness.
He came round behind, and forthwith instituted a very minute
investigation of the calves of my legs. This was probably a proof of
the dog's high intelligence, but it was not over-pleasant to me
nevertheless.
"There is hardly anything that animal won't do," said the shopkeeper.
"I can quite believe that," I replied, with a furtive glance over my
shoulder; "I can quite believe it."
Danger went away presently, apparently satisfied with the result of his
scrutiny, and my mind was relieved.
I had occasion to make many visits to the same shop after this, and
Danger and I got to be very friendly indeed. There was something
decidedly honest about Danger's every look and action when you came to
know him. Perhaps he had the same opinion about me. I trust he had.
At all events he appeared to take to me, and had a quiet, queer way of
showing his regard that many people wouldn't have altogether relished:
to wit, if I sat down in the shop, as I sometimes did, Danger would come
and lay his great head in my lap; it weighed about ten pounds,
apparently; any attempt at getting him to remove it, until he himself
pleased, elicited a low growl, which was by no means reassuring. Yet,
while he growled, he wagged his tail at the same time, as much as to
say:
"I really do not wish to quarrel with you, unless you force me."
If I _stood_ in the shop instead of sitting, it was much the same,
because Danger used to lie down beside me, and put his monster head on
top of my foot, and go through the same performance if I attempted to
disturb him. Nor would he always obey his master and come away when
told; he was like the spirits in "the vasty deep."
I made the village of V--my headquarters for several months it was _so_
quiet, and I wanted rest. It came to pass eventually that Danger took
it into his big head to go with me in my walks and rambles; I did not
dare to refuse the convoy, though so forbidding did the animal look,
that I was often ashamed to be seen in his company. I flatter myself
that there is nothing of the Bill Sykes about my personal appearance; if
there were, Danger was just the dog for me. Ladies meeting me and my
questionable friend, would often look first at Danger and then at me, in
a way I did not at all relish.
Danger was not a young dog; he had certainly arrived at years of
discretion. He was well known in V--. Indeed, he was as much a part
and parcel of the village as the town clock itself; and a fine, free and
independent life Danger led, too. It was also a life of singular
regularity. As soon as he had eaten his breakfast of a morning, he used
to take a trot down the street, visiting exactly the same places or
spots every day. Coming back, he would seat himself at a bend of the
road and right in the middle thereof, where he could see all that was
going on either up the street or down the street; and hear as well, for
he always kept one of his ears turned each way--a very convenient
arrangement. Danger spent the greater portion of every forenoon, wet
day or dry day, in this way, only on Sundays he never appeared at all.
He was not only well known to every human being in the village, but to
every dog and cat also, and no dog ever went past Danger without coming
and saying a friendly word or two, or exchanging tail-waggings, which is
much the same. I have sat at my window and seen all sorts and all kinds
and conditions of dogs come and make their obeisance to Danger of a
forenoon--lordly Saint Bernards, noble Newfoundlands, stately mastiffs,
business-looking collies, agile greyhounds, foxy Pomeranians, wee, wiry
Scotch-terriers, daft-like Skyes, and even ladies' darlings, the backs
of whom Danger could have broken at one bite, had he been so minded.
I am perfectly sure that Danger knew he was not very prepossessing in
appearance, and that he looked a fierce dog, though he did not feel it.
Occasionally a strange dog would come trotting up the street, and then
it was amusing to watch Danger's tactics. Of course the new dog would
not like to pass Danger without making some sign. To do so would have
looked cowardly, and no dog cares to show fear, whether he feels it or
not. Danger would bend all his energies to getting the new-comer to
advance and be friendly. He would not get up, because that might be
construed into a menace, but he would positively wriggle on the road and
grin. This made him appear more grotesquely hideous than ever, but the
other dog seldom failed to understand it.
"I confess I do look terribly ugly and terribly ferocious," Danger would
seem to say, "but I am the meekest-minded dog in all the village. Come
along. Don't be afraid. I never met you before, but I am satisfied we
shall be the very best of friends."
"Well," the new dog would apparently reply, "you are certainly no
beauty, but I think I can trust you nevertheless."
Now there came to the village one day a large half-bred cur, partly
smooth sheep-dog, and partly mastiff. He came swinging up the street in
a very independent manner indeed, and as soon as he saw Danger he
stopped short, and raised his hair from head to tail. This was meant
for a challenge to Danger, but Danger was slow to see it; he simply
began to grin in his usual idiotic fashion. But when the mongrel
advanced, Danger grasped the situation in a moment. At the same time
the cur seized Danger by the neck, and a fierce fight ensued. Five
minutes after the mongrel slunk away home, beaten, bleeding, cowed; and
Danger lay quietly down again as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Dave," as the mongrel was called, had had enough of Danger, and used to
go past him afterwards as if he saw him not; but he took his revenge on
the other village dogs, all the same. There was scarcely one he did not
attack and badly use. When, however, Dave one day lamed a Pomeranian,
who was a great favourite with Danger, and when that wee dog came
limping up and seemed to show Danger his grievous wounds, the latter
thought it was quite time to be up and doing. He now purposely threw
himself in Dave's way at every opportunity, and stout and fierce were
the battles fought, Danger invariably coming off triumphant.
Dave belonged to a wood-carter, and both man and dog had bad names.
When Dave at last took to worrying sheep by the dozen, his master was
communicated with in a way he hardly relished, and so Dave was put on
chain, and peace in the village canine community was happily restored.
The winter came on, and a wild, bitter winter it was, with high, icy,
east winds, sleet and snow. I happened to be passing one day near to
the cottage where Dave's master dwelt, and, hearing a mournful whine
issuing from a shed, I peeped in. There lay poor dog Dave, and a
pitiable sight he was, and no sign of either water or food was to be
seen. My heart bled for the creature. Bad enough he was in all
conscience, but to make him suffer thus was revolting. I got little
satisfaction at first from his cruel master, who told me he had no time
to attend properly to a dog on chain. The promise of an occasional coin
brought about a better state of existence for Dave. But this did not
last long. Once only I saw him led out on a string for a little
exercise. How wretched he looked!--lean and mangy, and trembling like
an old aspen-tree, his hocks plaiting and bending beneath him at every
step. There was no fight in Dave now! He even wagged his tail to
Danger when he met him, and Danger returned the salute with a hearty
goodwill, which showed how much of benevolence dwelt beneath that ugly
phiz of his.
But I was witness to a still greater proof of the kindness of Danger's
heart, a few days after this. It was a grey, dull day, with a keen wind
blowing from the north-east. I was just dressing to go out, when who
should I see making his way along the pavement but my friend Danger. He
had a great ham-bone in his mouth. I got out as quickly as I could, and
followed Danger down the street and down the lane, and straight to the
shed where poor Dave lay dying--for dying he undoubtedly was.
I never before had read or heard of so generous an act being done by one
dog to another--that other, too, a quondam foe. Dave lay on his
miserable bed of damp, unwholesome straw in the woodshed, through every
cranny and chink of which the wintry wind was whistling and sighing.
Dave was shivering, but more, I think, from sickness than cold. Danger
approached with a ridiculous grin on his foolish phiz, and many an
apologetic wag of his tail. "Here, Dave," he seemed to say, "here is a
bone I have saved for you; there certainly isn't much on it, but it may
just do for a picking."
But poor Dave was past even picking a ham-bone, and two days after this
the shed had no tenant; Dave was dead. I do sincerely wish that my tale
had not so gloomy a finish, but as I am writing facts, I have no power
to make it otherwise. Danger's master lived in a cottage about a mile
up the Don, and close to its bank. One night a terrible rain-storm came
on, and I was told next day that the river was in "spate;" that many
sheep had been carried away, and even cattle and horses. After
breakfast I went to see it. There was something even awe-inspiring in
the sight; the quiet and placid river of the day before, with its clear,
brown, rippling water, was swollen into a wide, yellow, surging, roaring
torrent. The sturdy old bridge on which I stood shook and trembled with
the force of the water that dashed underneath. Pine-trees, hay, straw,
and even the carcases of cattle, came down stream every minute. I left
the bridge at last, and walked slowly up along the top of a wooded
cliff.
Till this day I regret that I did not go straight home from the bridge,
for I shall always remember what I saw. Something was coming floating
down the turgid river, right in the centre, and rapidly approaching me,
swirling round and round in the current.
It was a small hay-cock. How he had got on I never knew, but on the top
thereof was my honest friend Danger. I called him.
The pitiable, pleading look with which he replied went straight to my
heart. Danger could not swim!
What made the matter more mentally painful to me was, that there was
quite as much of the ludicrous as the pathetic about the situation.
For, poor dog, his great solemn face never looked uglier, never looked
more distressed than now; and the glance he gave me as he was borne
hurriedly onwards to certain destruction--why, I have but to close my
eyes to see it even now, as I sit here.
And that was the last that was ever seen of Danger; he never appeared
again on the streets of the village of V--.