Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been
harmonized. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Bold
text has been marked with =equal signs=. The original capitalization
of words has been retained.
[Illustration: Romulus and Remus]
THE DOGS OF BOYTOWN
BY
WALTER A. DYER
Author of "Pierrot, Dog of Belgium," "Gulliver the Great,
and Other Dog Stories," "The Five Babbitts at
Bonnyacres," etc.
[Illustration: Printer's logo]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918.
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I SAM BUMPUS AND HIS NAN 1
II SAM'S SHACK 16
III ROMULUS AND REMUS 33
IV IN ROME 47
V THE WILLOWDALE KENNELS 61
VI ANXIOUS DAYS 81
VII SOME OTHER DOGS, INCLUDING RAGS 96
VIII DOG DAYS 120
IX THE TRAINING OF ROMULUS 135
X WILLOWDALE DOGS IN NEW YORK 152
XI THE BOYTOWN DOG SHOW 166
XII CAMP BRITCHES 183
XIII THE PASSING OF RAGS 199
XIV THE COMING OF TATTERS 215
XV ROMULUS AT THE TRIALS 230
XVI THE MASSATUCKET SHOW 245
XVII THE TEST OF REMUS 265
XVIII ON HULSE'S POND 280
XIX EVERY DOG HIS DAY 293
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
ROMULUS AND REMUS _Frontispiece_
ENGLISH SETTER 7
CHOW CHOW 30
ENGLISH BULLDOG 56
WHITE ENGLISH BULL TERRIER 64
AIREDALE TERRIER 70
POMERANIAN 79
PEKINGESE 84
GREAT DANE 98
TOY POODLE 117
IRISH TERRIER 147
BOSTON TERRIER 179
COLLIE 202
BEAGLES 250
OLD ENGLISH SHEEPDOG 271
THE DOGS OF BOYTOWN
CHAPTER I
SAM BUMPUS AND HIS NAN
There are misguided people in this world who profess to believe that
only grown-ups can fully appreciate the beauties of nature. Oh, the
grown-ups talk more about that sort of thing, to be sure, and know how
to say poetic things about winter fields and sunsets that are usually
locked in a boy's heart. But for the fullest appreciation of blue
skies and autumn woods and sandy shores, and the most genuine
enjoyment of broken sunshine on the forest floor, the smell of falling
oak leaves, and the song of the wind in the pines or rustling across
broad, rolling fields, give me a boy every time. I know, for I have
been one.
That is why I am going to begin this story about boys and dogs by
telling of a certain crisp October morning--a Saturday morning when
boyhood enjoys its weekly liberty. There had been frost the night
before and the air was still cool and very clear. It was like drinking
cold water to take long breaths of it. The golden sun was rising
high above the rounded hills to the east and the sunlight turned to
glistening silver the shreds of smoke that drifted lazily up from the
chimneys of Boytown in the little valley a mile or so away.
I must digress for a moment to speak of Boytown. You will not find it
on the map, for that is not its real name. It is not always wise to
call people and places by their real names in a book, and so I have
given this name to the Connecticut town where lived all the boys and
the dogs that I am going to tell about. It was a nice old town, just
about the right size, with a broad main street where the stores and
business buildings were, and in the upper end of which a narrow green
ran down the middle with a row of big elm trees in it. Most of the
people lived on the side streets, some of which ran for quite a
distance up Powder Mill Hill to the west. But most of the pleasant
places in this part of the world lay to the east. The railroad ran
along that side of the town, and beyond it were the brickyards and
Hulse's Pond. If you were in search of adventure, you skirted this
pond, went up over a long, grassy hill, and at length entered the
woods which stretched all the way to Oakdale, broken now and then by
farms and open stretches of hilly meadow or pasture land.
Here in the woods there was much to be seen on this fine October
day. There were squirrels everywhere, busy with the harvesting of
their winter's supply of nuts, and if you were lucky you might catch a
glimpse of a cottontail rabbit disappearing into a thicket, or a
grouse shooting off among the trees with a great whirring of wings.
The autumn foliage was at its finest, the deep green of pine and
hemlock mingling with the crimson of the oaks, the flaming scarlet of
the maples, and the translucent gold of the silvery-stemmed birches.
Above the trees the sky was that soft blue color that you like to lie
on your back and look at, with here and there fleecy little clouds
constantly changing into all sorts of odd and whimsical shapes. From
the branches of a tall pine a flock of sooty crows, alarmed by the
sound of human voices, arose all together and floated off over a
little clearing in company formation, cawing loudly.
If you had been one of those crows, you would have looked down at the
figures of two boys emerging from the woods. One was a slender lad of
about twelve, quite tall for his age, with straight black hair and
bright black eyes. The other, who was perhaps three years younger, was
so plump as almost to deserve the nickname of "Fatty." He had lighter
hair and eyes and there were freckles across the bridge of his not
very prominent nose. Both boys were dressed in their old clothes and
carried white cloth flour bags which already contained a few quarts
of chestnuts. They stood gazing with practised eyes at the tree-tops
around the little clearing.
"There ought to be some here, Jack," said the older boy. "The biggest
trees always grow near the edges."
"They're the easiest to get at, too," responded Jack.
They walked together around the margin of the clearing and at length
located a tree to their liking. With much boosting on the part of
Jack, the older boy at last gained the lower branches and was soon
making the brown nuts rattle down upon the leafy ground.
After they had stripped three or four trees of their treasure, Jack
threw himself upon his back and began squinting up at a hawk sweeping
high up in the blue sky.
"I'm tired, Ernest," he said. "Let's go over to the Cave."
"Oh, it's early yet," replied Ernest, "and we haven't got half a
sackful."
"We have twelve quarts at home," said Jack. "We don't need any more.
Besides, we haven't been to the Cave for two weeks. It rained so hard
last Saturday that it may need cleaning out."
"All right," said Ernest. "Come along."
Jack scrambled to his feet and together they set off into the woods
again. A walk of half a mile or so brought them to a brook which they
followed upstream until they came to a leaky dam of stones and logs
which they had built the previous spring and which held back enough
water to make a small pond above. This they called their Beaver Dam
and Beaver Pond, and in the sandy bank at one side was Trapper's Cave.
Beaver Pond lay just within the edge of the wood, and from the Cave
one's eyes commanded a view of an old, disused pasture, now grown up
to sumacs and blueberry bushes, which stretched up and over a long
hill that seemed to bear the rim of the blue sky on its shoulder. One
could sit unobserved in the mouth of the Cave, quite hidden by the
saplings and undergrowth of the wood's edge, and watch all that went
on outside, with the depths of the dark, mysterious, whispering forest
at one's back.
The Cave itself would hardly have housed a family of real
Cave-Dwellers. It was neither very large nor very skilfully built, but
it amply served the purpose for which it was intended. It was dug out
of the soft sand of the bank. Two boards in the ceiling supported by
two birch props did not entirely prevent the sand from falling in, and
every visit to the Cave was attended by housecleaning. Nevertheless,
it was a delectable rendezvous for adventurers.
At one side was a low bench built of fence boards and at the other a
soap box with a hinged cover, hasp, and padlock, which served as a
treasure chest and which contained, among other things, a hatchet, an
old and not very sharp hunting knife, a dozen potatoes, and a supply
of salt and pepper. At first the boys had attempted to build a
fireplace at the back of the Cave, with a hole cut through the roof to
the surface of the ground above to serve as a chimney, but it proved
unsuccessful, and a circular pile of stones in front, with a rusty
kettle supported on two forked sticks, now served as campfire and cook
stove.
The boys filled the kettle at the little pond, not because they wished
to boil anything, but because it made a fire seem more worth while.
Then they kindled a blaze beneath it, and when there were enough red
coals, they thrust four of the potatoes among them.
"Now for a good feed," said Ernest.
At length, when the potatoes were burned black on the outside, they
pronounced them done and drew them out of the coals. They broke them
open gingerly, for they were very hot, and disclosed the mealy
insides, not at all troubled by the fact that the edible portion was
liberally sprinkled with black specks from the charred skins. Adding
salt and pepper, and using their jackknives as spoons, they proceeded
to eat with a relish which their mother would have found it
difficult to understand.
As they were engaged in this pleasant occupation, Ernest suddenly rose
to his feet and peered out through the saplings.
"What is it?" demanded Jack.
[Illustration: English Setter]
"Sh!" cautioned the older boy. "It's a man. He's coming down the hill.
He's got a gun and a dog with him."
Jack arose and stood on tiptoe beside his brother. Together they
watched the approach of a strange figure--a tall, lanky, raw-boned
individual wearing a rusty old felt hat and with an old corduroy
hunting coat flapping about him. In his hand he carried a
double-barreled shotgun which appeared to be the best-kept thing about
him. Running ahead of him was a beautiful English setter, speckled
white with black markings. Her every motion was swift and graceful as
she ran sniffing from one clump of shrubbery to another. Sometimes the
man would give a peculiar little whistle, and then the dog would pause
and look up, and then dart off to right or to left in obedience to a
wave of the man's arm.
Suddenly the dog stopped and stood rigid as a statue, her tail held
out straight behind, one foreleg raised, and her neck and nose
stretched toward a patch of sheep laurel. The man stealthily
approached while the dog stood perfectly motionless with quivering
nostrils.
They were quite near the boys now. There was a sudden movement in the
sheep laurel, a whir of wings, and four or five birds rose swiftly
into the air and shot off toward the woods.
"Bang!" went the man's gun, and both boys jumped so that they scarcely
noticed a bird fall.
"Bang!" went the other barrel almost immediately, and another bird
fell fluttering to earth. Then the dog broke her point and brought the
birds back to her master in her sensitive mouth.
To tell the truth, the boys were a little frightened at this
gun-fire so close at hand, especially Jack, and they watched anxiously
as the man reloaded his gun. But the birds had disappeared and the man
started off in the direction they had taken. He whistled to his dog,
but a new scent had attracted her attention, and she trotted down
toward the brook and began sniffing the air.
"She smells our potatoes," said Ernest.
Jack forgot his fears in this new interest.
"Let's call her over," said he.
"Come here, sir!" called Ernest, making a kissing noise with his lips.
"Come here!"
The dog lightly leaped the brook and came slowly up the bank toward
the Cave, her tail waving in a friendly manner. Ernest scraped out a
bit of potato and held it out to her. She stood for a moment,
sniffing, as if in doubt. Then she came forward and daintily took the
proffered food. In a few minutes both boys were smoothing the silky
head, looking into the fine eyes, and talking to their visitor.
"Tryin' to steal my dog?"
They had not noticed the man's approach, he had stepped so softly, and
the gruff voice so close beside them startled them.
"Oh, no," protested Ernest, hurriedly. "She--we----"
The man's face was very solemn, but there was a humorous twinkle in
his eyes that somehow made the boys feel easier. The dog placed her
paw on Jack's arm as though begging for more petting.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Ernest, in an effort to be polite.
The man's face broke into many wrinkles and he laughed aloud.
"Don't know but what I will," said he, "if you ain't afraid I'll hurt
your parlor chairs."
It was now the boys' turn to laugh, and the ice was broken. The man
squatted down beside the fire as though glad of a chance to rest, and
the dog stretched herself out at his feet.
"I'm glad you didn't mean to steal her," said the man, "because then I
wouldn't have no one to find birds for me. Then what would I do?"
There seemed to be no answer to this, so Ernest asked him if he had
shot many.
"Five this morning," said the man, and tumbled the pretty dead things
out of his pockets.
"They're quail, aren't they?" asked Ernest, stroking one of them.
"Yep," said he, "Bob-Whites. They're runnin' pretty good this year,
too."
Something in the man's friendly manner inspired a sort of boldness in
young Jack.
"Don't you hate to shoot them?" he asked.
The man looked into Jack's frank brown eyes for a moment and then
moved a little closer.
"Say," he said, "I'll tell you a secret. I s'pose I've shot more birds
and rabbits than any man in this county, if I do say it, and I never
bring down a partridge or kill a chicken that I don't feel sorry for
it. I ain't never got over it and I guess I never shall. But it's the
only thing old Sam Bumpus is good for, I reckon, and it has to be
done. Folks has to eat and I have to make a livin'. I don't do it for
fun, though I don't know any finer thing in this world than trampin'
off 'cross country with a gun and a good dog on a fine mornin'. It's
my business, you see."
"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest. "I'd like that business better than
insurance, I guess. That's what my father is."
"Who is your father?" inquired Sam Bumpus. "You see I'm very
partic'lar who I know."
"He's Mr. Whipple. We're Ernest and Jack Whipple."
"Oh, you live down on Washburn Street?"
Ernest nodded.
"Well, that's all right," said Sam. "I guess you'll pass."
He seemed in no great hurry to be getting on. Taking an old black pipe
from his pocket he filled it from a greasy pouch and lighted it. He
took a few reflective puffs before he spoke again.
"What do you know about dogs?" he asked, abruptly.
"Why--not very much, I guess," confessed Ernest.
"We like them, though," added Jack.
"Well, that's half the game," said Sam. "There's two kinds of people
in this world, them that likes dogs and them that don't, and you can't
never make one kind understand how the other kind feels about it. It
just ain't possible. And if you don't like dogs you can't never know
dogs, and if you don't know dogs you're missin'--well, I can't tell
you how much."
"I've known Nan here," he continued, stroking the setter's head, while
she looked up at him with adoration in her eyes, "I've known Nan for
goin' on seven years, and I learn somethin' new about her every day. I
raised her from a puppy, broke her to birds, and lived with her summer
and winter, and I tell you I never seen a man or a woman that knows
any more than what she does or one that I could trust so far. That's
the thing about a dog; you can trust 'em. There's bad dogs and good
dogs, and no two is just alike, but if you once get a good one, hang
onto him, for you'll never find another friend that'll stick to you
like him."
The man seemed so much in earnest that the boys remained silent for a
time. Then Jack asked, "Can she do tricks?"
"If you mean sit up and roll over and play dead, no," said Sam. "I
don't believe in spoilin' a good bird dog by teachin' 'em things that
don't do 'em no good. But what she don't know about huntin' ain't
worth knowin'. It positively ain't."
For half an hour more Sam Bumpus told the boys of various incidents
that proved the sagacity of Nan and the other dogs he had owned. He
told how once, when a burning log rolled from his fireplace in the
night and set his little house on fire, a pointer named Roger had seen
the flames through the window, had broken his collar, plunged through
the mosquito netting across the window, and had wakened his master by
pulling off the bedclothes and barking.
"If that dog hadn't known how to think and plan, I wouldn't be here
to-day talkin' to you boys."
Suddenly he jumped to his feet.
"That reminds me," said he. "I've been sittin' talkin' here too long.
I've got to be about my business and your folks'll wonder why you
don't come home to dinner. Come, Nan, old girl."
The setter sprang up, yawned, and then stood ready for the next
command. Both boys patted her and then held out their hands to Sam.
"I hope we'll see you again sometime," said Ernest. "We like to hear
you tell about your dogs."
The man's tanned face seemed to soften a little as he shook hands with
the boys.
"Well," said he, "I guess you can see me if you want to. My social
engagements ain't very pressin' just now. I ain't got one of my
business cards with me, but you can just call anywhere in these woods
and ask for Sam Bumpus. The dogs'll know me if the men don't. So long,
boys," and he strode off down the bank with Nan dashing joyously
ahead.
"Good-by, Mr. Bumpus," called Ernest and Jack.
He paused in the act of leaping the brook and looked around, with the
twinkle in his eyes.
"Say," he called back, "if I ever hear you call me that again I'll set
the dog on you. My name's Sam, d'ye hear?" Then he slipped in among
the underbrush and was gone.
Talking animatedly about their new acquaintance and about dogs, the
two boys hastened to lock up their treasure chest and depart.
"Say, Ernest," said Jack, as they started off through the woods with
their bags of chestnuts over their shoulders, "the Cave is a great
place for adventures, isn't it?"
That evening, as the family were gathered in the living-room on
Washburn Street, and Mrs. Whipple was trying to repair the damage
that chestnutting had wrought in a pair of Ernest's stockings, the
boys asked their father if he knew Sam Bumpus.
"Bumpus?" he asked. "Oh, yes, he's that queer fellow that lives all
alone in a shack in the woods off on the Oakdale Road. An odd
character, I guess, from all I hear, but they say he's a wonderful
shot and people take their bird dogs to him to be broken. How did you
hear about him?"
The boys told their story, and then Ernest asked wistfully, "Papa,
when can we have a dog?"
"When your mother says you can," replied Mr. Whipple, with a smile.
Sorrowfully the boys went off to bed, well knowing what that meant.
For Mrs. Whipple was one of the people that Sam Bumpus had spoken
of--the kind that don't like dogs.