SOME OTHER DOGS, INCLUDING RAGS
It was sympathy for Jack Whipple and interest in the sickness and
recovery of Remus that resulted in the formation of a sort of
freemasonry of dog lovers among the boys of Boy town. It had always
been known that some of the boys had dogs, and there had been a good
deal of fun with these dogs at different times in the past. But
hitherto the dogs had been, in a way, taken for granted, and had lived
in a sort of background in the boy life of the town. Suddenly they
came to light as important members of the community, and each dog had
its boy champion.
While Romulus and Remus were sick, the Whipple boys often had to
answer inquiries as to their progress, but Ernest and Jack had been so
wrapped up in their own worries that they did not realize the
widespread sympathy that had sprung up. They did not know that a dozen
other boys each loved a dog much as they loved Romulus and Remus and
could understand what it must mean to watch at the bedside of a
seriously sick puppy.
But when Romulus was well on the road to perfect health again and
Remus was slowly convalescing, the other boy dog lovers of the town
began to drop around, sometimes with offerings to be appreciated by
dogs, just as neighbors bring in jellies and fruit when a person is
recovering from a long illness. Then Ernest and Jack began to realize
how many friends they had in Boytown and that they all had a precious
possession in common.
Harry Barton came first, with Mike. His manner was subdued and he did
not brag. He stepped softly as one would in entering a sick room, and
he patted Remus's little head very gently and called him "poor little
muttsie." Then came Theron Hammond, though he left his Boston terrier
at home because Alert had never had distemper and might catch it. He
and the Whipple boys sat for a long time in the stable doorway and
speculated about the knowingness of dogs. Monty Hubbard came, too. He
left his Irish terrier, Mr. O'Brien, at home because of said Mr.
O'Brien's well-known proclivity to fight with anything in the shape of
a dog, though Monty was sure he wouldn't hurt two sick puppies. But
Herbie Pierson honored Rome by bringing his huge, brindled Great Dane,
Hamlet, who regarded the setters with fatherly indulgence and then
walked off in his stately manner and crouched like a noble statue
beside the front gate.
And last of all came Rags and Jimmie Rogers, of whom I will presently
tell you more.
[Illustration: Great Dane]
Boytown had always been a great place for dogs. Not only the
aristocrats of dogdom, living comfortably in homes with loving masters
and mistresses, but all sorts of nondescript dogs, many of whom seemed
to be masterless and homeless, though not invariably unhappy. In fact,
there were many good citizens of Boytown who did not like dogs and who
felt that the canine population of the place was altogether too
large.
There were restrictive laws that ought to have reduced this canine
population to such dogs as were properly owned and licensed, but the
government of Boytown was criticized as being a happy-go-lucky affair
a good deal of the time, and it was only when complaints became
sufficiently numerous and serious that the town fathers took steps to
enforce the laws and abolish what was conceded to be a public
nuisance. Then a dog catcher was hired, warnings were posted, and the
stray dogs were gathered up and mysteriously disposed of. It was
rather a cruel and heart-rending business, if you stopped to think of
it, and it would not have been necessary if the authorities had been
more uniformly strict in observing the statutes and ordinances, but
that was their way.
It was during one of the periods of laxity that a wire-haired terrier
appeared from no one knew where. He was not an authentic
representative of any of the established breeds; it was quite evident
that he had just happened somehow. But he was conspicuous among his
miscellaneous black and white and brown and brindled brethren by
reason of his superior alertness and intelligence and his
never-failing good humor and high spirits. His tramp life had in no
way damaged his disposition; he seemed to have been born full of the
joy of life. He was about the size of one of Mr. Hartshorn's smaller
Airedales and in the main he was not badly formed. But his tail, which
had never been docked, hung at a rakish angle to one side and one ear
was set higher than the other. His eyes were extraordinarily bright
and his wiry coat was a grizzled black, always tousled and generally
dirty.
The boys were not long in making this stranger's acquaintance. Indeed,
he made the first advances, joining in their sport one day when they
were in swimming in the pond over by the brickyard, and mingling his
joyous barks with the shrieks of laughter which his antics provoked.
He would pick them up on their way to school, or anywhere, and make
himself generally companionable, and it was not long before they
discovered him to be most precocious in the learning of tricks.
It was not in the nature of things that such a dog should remain
forever masterless, but the periodical cleaning up of the dog catcher
had begun before anyone had had time to think of him as anything but
everybody's dog. It was Jimmie Rogers who saw him seized and thrust
unceremoniously into the dog catcher's covered wagon, and it was
Jimmie who set out alone to achieve his rescue. Jimmie's people lived
on Sharon Street and were not well to do, but somehow Jimmie managed
to scrape together the five dollars which he found must be paid
before he could establish his claim to ownership.
After that, by common consent, he became Jimmie Rogers's dog. He had
already won the name of Rags.
So Jimmie brought his beloved Rags to visit the invalids, and Romulus
and Remus looked on with big-eyed amazement while Rags was made to sit
up, shake hands, roll over, chase his tail, play dead, and sing.
But there was one boy with a dog who did not come to visit the sick,
and Ernest and Jack Whipple were not sorry. They did not like Dick
Wheaton, and Dick, it was easy to believe, was not one to care whether
another boy's dog died or not. He was a good deal of a bully at
school, and Jack feared and avoided him. As for the older boys, they
found him generally unamiable and those of them who knew the love of
dogs were angry with Dick for the way he treated poor little Gyp.
Gyp was a smooth-coated fox terrier and a very good specimen of his
breed. He was smart and gamey, but his spirit had nearly been broken
by his tyrannical master. Dick seemed unable to resist the temptation
to bully everything smaller and weaker than himself, and when there
were no small boys or little girls within his reach he indulged his
proclivities by teasing his dog.
Gyp, who had never had any other master, did not think of resenting
this. He merely endured it as best he might. In fact, there was no
more obedient dog in Boytown. It was pitiful to see the way in which
he would answer his master's lightest word, as though he lived
constantly in the hope of winning favor by his promptness.
Boys often like to tease animals, but they are seldom actually cruel,
at least not knowingly so. And when a boy becomes possessed of a dog
or a pony of his own, his attitude often undergoes a marked change.
But no relenting took place in Dick Wheaton's nature, and the other
boys who had learned the lesson of kindness, recognizing his right to
do as he chose with his own, could only look on with growing
disapproval and dislike.
But all the other dog-owning boys of the town found their friendships
growing closer in the warmth of this common interest. During the
convalescence of Remus they made Rome a sort of lodge room for the
meetings of a new association with an unwritten constitution and no
by-laws. They talked much of dogs and it was not long before a number
of them were keenly desirous of visiting Willowdale and making the
acquaintance of dog-wise Tom Poultice, the rich Mr. Hartshorn, and all
the Airedales and white bull terriers.
So Harry Barton made the arrangements and one Saturday in May an
expedition was formed to walk to Thornboro and visit Willowdale. There
were seven boys in the company and three dogs--Mike, Alert, and Rags.
Romulus and Remus were not yet strong enough to make such a trip and
it was voted that these three could be counted upon to behave
themselves properly. There was a little doubt about Rags, but he was a
general favorite and was always given the benefit of any doubt. At the
last moment Herbie Pierson and Hamlet joined the excursion.
To these active boys and their dogs the way did not seem too long. In
fact, Rags, full of joyful exuberance at this rare treat, dashed about
on all sorts of secondary adventures, running three miles to every one
traversed. Even sturdy little Alert, in spite of his short legs, took
it all as a lark and did not think to be weary until he reached home
that afternoon and fell sound asleep on his front door mat.
The arrival of the four canine strangers at Willowdale created a good
deal of commotion in the fenced-in runs, and Rags nearly went crazy
with the excitement. But Tom Poultice took it all good-naturedly, and
when he had got things quieted down a little he took the boys through
the kennels and introduced them to the prize dogs.
They were all so absorbed in this pleasant occupation that it was
noon before they knew it, and Mrs. Hartshorn came out to invite them
all up to the porch for a luncheon. As they were following her up to
the house she asked questions about their four dogs, and appeared to
take a great interest in Alert especially.
"He's really a very fine little dog," she said. "But who is this?"
Rags had come up and thrust his cold nose ingratiatingly into her
hand.
"Oh, that's Rags," they said, and interrupted each other with
explanations. Mrs. Hartshorn laughed.
"Well, I would hardly know what to call him," she said, "but he is
evidently a very popular person. But what's the matter with his back?"
"Oh, it just itches," said Jimmie.
There was a spot on Rags's back that was difficult for him to reach,
and it gave him a good deal of trouble, but he had managed to bite a
good deal of the hair out of it. Beneath, Mrs. Hartshorn discovered
the skin to be in a scabby and unhealthy condition.
"Well," said she, "this shouldn't be neglected. It may be mange, and
that's serious. Let's have Tom look at it."
Tom came up at her bidding and examined Rags's back.
"Do you think it's mange, Tom?" asked Mrs. Hartshorn.
"I don't think so," said he. "It looks like heczema, like the
Hairedales had last summer. 'E better 'ave some of that medicine, I
fancy."
"All right," said Mrs. Hartshorn, "I still have some at the house, I
think, that I got in case my dogs should need it. Eczema," she
explained to the boys, "isn't exactly a skin disease. It is caused by
the dog's general condition, and should be treated internally, though
if you will rub zinc ointment on that spot it will heal more rapidly.
The cure is first a good dose of sulphur and cream of tartar; you can
get that in tablet form at the drug store. Then give him the pills I
am going to get for you. They are a tonic and ought to fix him up all
right."
"Only be sure not to feed him any corn meal," warned Tom.
"That's so," said Mrs. Hartshorn, "especially now that warm weather is
coming."
Before the boys left that afternoon she gave Jimmie half a dozen soft
pills and also a prescription for more. It read, "Sulphate of quinine,
1 grain; sulphate of iron, 2 grains; extract of hyoscyamus, 1 grain;
with enough extract of taraxacum and glycerine to make a pill." It
might be added that Jimmie used this medicine faithfully and the sore,
itching spot at length disappeared from Rags's back.
Meanwhile the boys had arranged themselves expectantly on the front
porch and the maid presently appeared with plates, napkins,
sandwiches, crullers, and lemonade. Mrs. Hartshorn was a charming
hostess and the boys waxed merry over their luncheon. Great piles of
sandwiches disappeared as if by magic, and then there was chocolate
ice cream and sponge cake. The dogs lay eying their masters enviously,
all except the incorrigible Rags. He sat up and begged constantly, and
even Mrs. Hartshorn could not resist the temptation to toss him a
morsel now and then, which he caught with great deftness.
Just as they were finishing, Mr. Hartshorn drove up in his car.
"What have we here?" he cried. "An orphan asylum or a dog show?"
He got out of his car and ascended the steps, demanding his share of
the luncheon. Those of the boys who had not already met him were
introduced. Then he asked to be made acquainted with the dogs.
"What do you think of them?" asked Herbie Pierson, who was very proud
of his imposing Great Dane.
"I'll tell you after I've partaken of a little nourishment," said Mr.
Hartshorn. "You can't expect a man to talk learnedly on an empty
stomach, can you?"
He proceeded to do ample justice to his share of the sandwiches and
ice cream, while a jolly conversation was kept up, even the shyer boys
entering in at last.
"Now," said Mr. Hartshorn, as he finished his last spoonful, "let's
have a look at that Great Dane."
He stepped down from the porch and approached Hamlet, who submitted to
his caress with dignity. Then Mr. Hartshorn did strange things to him
which brought a look of amazement into his eyes. He pulled back the
dog's hind feet and made him stand straight, measured his head with
his hands, pulled down his lips, and thumped his ribs.
"A pretty good dog," said Mr. Hartshorn. "A trifle off in the
shoulders, perhaps, and a bit cow-hocked, but he has a good head. Ever
show him?"
"No, sir," said Herbie.
"Well, you ought to. We'll see about that some time."
"Won't you tell us something about Great Danes and other dogs, Mr.
Hartshorn?" asked Harry Barton. "Things like you told us about the
terriers the other day."
"Why," said he, "I thought I must have given you such a dose of it the
other time that you would want to run away from any more."
"Oh, no, sir," said Ernest Whipple. "We thought it was very
interesting. We've talked it over a lot since, and we want to know
about all the other kinds of dogs, too. All the boys do."
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "you never can tell what a boy will like,
I guess. If you had to learn all that in school, I'll bet you'd hate
it. But I don't want to overdo it. I'll tell you about just a few this
time."
The boys crowded around him expectantly as he sat down again on the
porch.
"The Great Dane," he began, "though once a hunting dog, a boarhound,
is now classed among the non-sporting breeds, and I'll tell you
something about those. They include the very biggest dogs--the
mastiff, the St. Bernard, the Newfoundland, and the Great Dane. The
smaller ones are the English bulldog, the French bulldog, the chow
chow, the poodle, the Dalmatian, and the schipperke. The collies and
other sheepdogs are also classed with the non-sporting breeds, but
I'll save those for another time. Let me get a book or two, so that
I'll be sure to get my information correct.
"Now then," he continued, when he had returned with his books, "I'll
outline a few facts about each of these breeds, but in order to avoid
sounding like a walking catalogue, I am going to omit a good many
things like color, size, and weight. These things are very important
in distinguishing the breeds, but they aren't very easy to carry in
your heads, and you can find them all set down in the dog books. I
shall try to tell you only the interesting, picturesque things about
each breed's history and character, and you can find all the rest in
the books.
"Let's begin with the St. Bernard. He's the biggest of all. Who knows
anything about the St. Bernard?"
"There's a piece in the Fourth Reader about them," ventured Theron
Hammond. "They used to guide travelers in the Alps and rescue them
when they were lost in the snow."
"And there was one named Barry," put in Harry Barton, "who saved the
lives of forty people, and they set up a monument of him in Paris."
"Correct," said Mr. Hartshorn. "There's no breed more famed in song
and story than the St. Bernard. It was developed long ago by the monks
of the Hospice of St. Bernard in Switzerland, who trained their dogs
for the purposes you have mentioned. So many of them were lost,
however, that the breed got into a bad way a hundred years ago and had
to be brought back by crossing with the Newfoundland and other breeds.
As I said, it is one of the largest breeds, sometimes weighing as much
as two hundred pounds--more than most men."
"Are there some good St. Bernard stories?" asked Jack Whipple, who
preferred anecdotes to descriptive particulars.
"A lot of them," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but there seems to be a good
deal of sameness about them. They tell of the saving of Alpine
travelers and shepherds, lost in snowstorms or caught in crevasses in
glaciers. Some of them are very thrilling. The best story I ever read
about a St. Bernard, however, had nothing to do with mountaineering.
"This dog was the beloved friend and constant companion of the Count
of Monte Veccios, a Venetian nobleman. Now it became very necessary to
the Count that he should obtain certain favors from General Morosini,
who was somewhat difficult of approach, in spite of the fact that he
was in much the same position himself. In order to gain his own ends,
the General had arranged in his palace a gorgeous banquet in honor of
the Doge of Venice, from whom he hoped to gain important concessions,
and he had caused his great banquet table to be laden with gold and
silver plate and much fine Venetian glass.
"The Count, hearing of these preparations, screwed up his courage and
called on General Morosini. He praised to the skies the table
appointments, which pleased the General, but as soon as he began to
plead his own cause, the General became cold and unyielding and
begged the Count to cease annoying him about these petty matters. As
the Count left the General's palace, he turned to his faithful dog,
with tears in his eyes, and said, 'You see, my friend, how badly I am
used.'
"The St. Bernard was greatly affected by this, and he formed in his
own mind a plan of revenge, since it was beyond his powers to secure
justice. Unobserved, he stole back into the General's palace, and just
as the Doge was arriving with his retinue, the dog seized the corner
of the tablecloth in his mouth and dashed out of the house, upsetting
the entire banquet and smashing most of the valuable glassware. I
don't believe there is any moral to that story, but perhaps that won't
spoil it for you.
"I don't believe I have any mastiff stories," continued Mr. Hartshorn,
"but that breed must be mentioned in passing, as it is one of the very
old and very famous breeds of England. The mastiff used to be popular
here thirty years ago, but we seldom see any now, and sometimes I fear
the breed is dying out. It's too bad, for he was a fine, powerful dog,
brave and wise.
"Another fine dog that has gone out of fashion is the Newfoundland.
There are still some good ones in England, but very few here. I
suppose the Newfoundland has more rescues of drowning persons to his
credit than any other breed, and it's a shame to see him go. The breed
originated on the island of Newfoundland a hundred years ago, and you
will still see a dog's head on the Newfoundland postage stamps.
"The Newfoundland has a waterproof coat and is a wonderful swimmer, so
that a good many of the anecdotes told about dogs of this breed have
to do with their exploits in the water. For example, there is one of a
man who fell off a narrow foot-bridge into a swift mill stream. The
miller's dog promptly dived in and rescued him, and having
accomplished this, coolly plunged in again to save the man's hat that
was just about to be swept over the dam. There are several amusing
stories told of Newfoundlands dragging bathers to shore, quite against
their wills, because the dogs fancied they were in danger.
"A naval lieutenant owned a canary bird and a Newfoundland dog. While
they were cruising in the Mediterranean, the bird escaped from the
cabin and, flying out to sea, became weighted down with the spray and
dropped into the water. The dog leaped overboard, and when he was
hauled up on deck again, he dropped the bird out of his mouth, quite
uninjured. Another naval officer who owned a Newfoundland was drowned
when his ship was sunk near Liverpool. The faithful dog swam about
over the spot for three days and three nights, searching vainly for
his master, before he would allow himself to be brought exhausted to
land.
"Friendships between two dogs are very rare, but instances have been
recorded, and in most of these a Newfoundland figures. At Donaghadee
there was once a mastiff and a Newfoundland who were, for some reason,
bitter enemies, and as both were powerful dogs, it was desirable to
keep them apart. One day, however, the mastiff attacked the
Newfoundland on the pier, and a terrific fight ensued. At length both
dogs fell into the water and loosed their holds. The Newfoundland was
soon on dry land, but the mastiff was a poor swimmer and appeared in
danger of drowning. The Newfoundland, observing the plight of his
recent antagonist, plunged in again and brought him to shore, after
which the two dogs were the closest friends. Another Newfoundland at
Cork became so annoyed by a small, troublesome cur, that at last he
took him in his mouth and dropped him into the water. When the small
dog was nearly drowned the Newfoundland rescued him, and was never
annoyed by him again.
"But the Newfoundland has been the means of saving not merely drowning
persons. In 1841 a laborer named Rake in the parish of Botley, near
Southampton, in England, was buried in a gravel pit with two ribs
broken. He was helpless and would undoubtedly have died there if his
employer's Newfoundland dog had not dug him out.
"William Youatt, who wrote two or three of the dog books in my
library, tells of an experience he once had with a friend's
Newfoundland dog named Carlo. Youatt and the friend and Carlo parted
on the road to Kingston, the dog and his master turning off toward
Wandsworth. Soon afterward Youatt was accosted by ruffians. He never
knew what made Carlo come back to him, but the dog appeared at the
critical moment and drove the men away. Carlo escorted Youatt to a
safe place, and then, in the author's quaint words, 'with many a
mutual and honest greeting we parted, and he bounded away to overtake
his rightful owner.'
"The Newfoundland has always been famous as the protector of children,
and this is illustrated by an amusing story told of a Newfoundland
that was owned by the chief engineer on H. M. S. _Buffalo_. The
incident took place on an evening in 1858 at the Woolwich theater in
London. In the third act of the play, 'Jessie Vere,' there was a
violent struggle over the possession of a child. The dog, who had
sneaked into the theater behind his master, flew to the rescue across
the footlights, much to the consternation of all concerned."
"My!" said Ernest Whipple, "there are certainly a fine lot of
stories about Newfoundlands. Are they all true?"
"Well," smiled Mr. Hartshorn, "I can't vouch for them all, but I
believe that most of them are founded on fact, and some of them are
undoubtedly quite true. Now let's see what the next dog is.
"The Great Dane is at the present time the most popular of the very
large dogs. As you can see by looking at Hamlet, he is a powerful,
graceful animal. The breed was used in Germany, I don't know how long
ago, for hunting the wild boar and was introduced into England in the
'80's as the German boarhound. You can see from this one what kind of
dog it is. The ears are commonly cropped in this country, but in 1895
the practice was abolished in England for all breeds. I hope some day
it will be abolished here. The fanciers think cropping makes the dog
look smarter, but it's a silly, unnatural thing to do, when you come
to think of it. I wish I didn't have to do it with my bull terriers,
but they would never take prizes with long ears. I don't remember any
Great Dane stories.
"Now we come to the smaller ones. Mike here is a very good English
bulldog, though not so extreme a type as some of them. This breed,
like the mastiff, is of British origin, and probably came from the
same ancestry. He was trained for bull baiting and later for pit
fighting. Tramps and other people are afraid of bulldogs because of
their frightful appearance, but as you can see, if you know Mike, they
are often as gentle as lambs.
"The French bulldog is much smaller and he is different in many
respects. He has big bat ears, for one thing. The chow chow is an
interesting dog that comes from China. Perhaps you will be amazed when
I tell you that this dog was originally bred and fattened by the
Chinese to be eaten like pork and mutton. The tastes of the Oriental
are certainly peculiar.
"The poodle, which was originally a German dog but which was developed
chiefly in France, used to be better known than he is now. He is
supposed to be the cleverest of all dogs and you will usually find
poodles in troops of trick dogs."
"It seems to me," said Theron, "that I've read some stories about
poodles."
"Yes, there are a number of classic poodle stories," said Mr.
Hartshorn, "illustrating the cleverness of the breed. I am sorry to
say that poodles have been trained as thieves' dogs, and have been
widely used by smugglers on the French frontiers, who trained them to
carry lace and other valuable commodities across the border.
"The most famous of these stories is that of the poodle of the Pont
Neuf, one of the bridges of Paris. He was owned by a bootblack, who
taught him to roll in the mud of the Seine and then run about among
the pedestrians on the bridge, dirtying their shoes. This meant more
business for the bootblack. An Englishman observed this performance
and was much impressed by the dog's smartness in carrying out his
part. He offered the bootblack a good price for the poodle and took
him back to London with him. But the poodle didn't care for his new
life; apparently he had no wish to reform. Somehow or other he managed
to stow himself away on a Channel boat and made his way back to Paris,
where he returned to his former master and resumed his old
occupation."
[Illustration: Toy Poodle]
When the boys had finished laughing over this droll story, Mr.
Hartshorn continued:
"The Dalmatian or coach dog comes from eastern Europe, and was bred
long ago in Dalmatia, now an Austrian province. He was well known in
England by 1800 and was used there as a stable dog and was trained to
run with the horses and under the carriages. Here you will see them
most often as mascots in fire engine houses. It's queer how fashions
run in those things. He is always pure white, evenly covered with
round black or brown spots.
"The last of this group is the schipperke. I don't believe you know
him, for the breed isn't very common here. The name means 'little
skipper,' and the dog has long been a favorite with the captains of
Flemish and Dutch canal barges. The schipperke has no tail to wag.
There," he concluded, "I guess I've filled you up with enough dog
information for this trip. I don't want to overdo it."
"You couldn't overdo it for me," said Ernest Whipple. "Will you tell
us about some of the other breeds another day?"
"And tell us more anecdotes?" chimed in Jack.
"I promise," said Mr. Hartshorn.
Ernest, Harry, and Theron were boys of the type that love to collect
facts and figures, and they had recently been doing some reading on
the subject of the breeds of dogs. They discussed the matter all the
way home, becoming quite excited now and then over disputed points.
"Mr. Hartshorn said that Rags didn't belong to any regular breed,"
said Jimmie Rogers as the boys separated, "but I don't care. There
ought to be a breed like him, anyway, 'cause there isn't any better
dog anywhere. Rags is good enough for me."
"That's right," cried the other boys in chorus. "You stick to Rags.
He's all right, whatever the books say. Good-by, Rags. So long, Jim."