THE TRAINING OF ROMULUS
On the way back from Thornboro that day something happened that gave a
new direction to the thoughts and aspirations of Ernest and Jack
Whipple. They had gone somewhat out of their way to a woods road that
was shadier and cooler than the highway and Romulus was nosing and
sniffing about in the underbrush quite a little distance to the left.
Ernest whistled, but Romulus apparently did not hear. He seemed to be
darting about in the bushes with unusual eagerness.
"What has he found, do you s'pose?" asked Jack.
"Let's go and see," said Ernest.
The two boys and Remus turned out of the road and approached the spot
where Romulus was hunting. Suddenly there was a whir of wings and a
dark object flashed upward and disappeared among the trees.
For a moment Romulus and Remus both stood rigid, with heads and tails
outstretched. Then they broke and disappeared in the woods. It was
some little time before the boys could get them back again and
started along the homeward road. The boys, breathless with running,
had not spoken to each other, but now Ernest said:
"It was some kind of a bird, Jack. Did you notice?"
"Yes," said Jack. "Why, Ernest, they know how to hunt already."
"I guess it's instinct," said Ernest. "And did you see them point?
They really did, for a minute, just like Sam's Nan, or the pictures in
the books."
"Oh, Ernest," cried Jack, "we must take them hunting. Do you s'pose we
could?"
"Sam could, anyway," said the older boy. "He said he'd train them."
The rest of the way home they talked of nothing but hunting and the
wonderful achievements that were in store for the two dogs.
Mr. Whipple approved the plan to have Romulus and Remus trained. A
good dog, in his eyes, was a dog that was good for something, and he
recognized the value of a well-trained bird dog though he had no
desire to see the boys become too fond of hunting themselves.
"All right," said he, "take them up to Bumpus and let him train them,
but you boys must promise not to ask to handle a gun yourselves.
You're not old enough, for one thing, and besides, your mother
doesn't approve of shooting. It's a dangerous business at best.
Remember, now, no nonsense about guns."
The boys, willing to postpone that question till some future time,
readily promised, and on a Saturday morning in September, soon after
the reopening of school, they took the dogs up to Sam's shack.
"Remember," said Sam, "I ain't promisin' anything. You never can tell
what kind of a bird dog a setter will make till you've tried him out.
I've got a lot of other things to attend to this fall, too. But I'll
do the best I can, and you mustn't be impatient if they ain't all
finished off in two weeks. Now we'll take 'em out for their first
lesson."
That first lesson proved to be a rather tedious affair to Ernest and
Jack. Nothing was said about birds or guns, pointing or retrieving.
Sam's chief aim was to get the dogs to obey his word and whistle as
well as they obeyed those of the boys, and the latter were forced to
keep silent while he gradually gained the mastery over the two lively
young dogs. Sam displayed, in this, much greater patience than the
boys did, but still it was pleasant to be out in the fields this fine
September day and to watch the dogs as they came to respond more and
more readily to the commands of their trainer. At first, indeed, there
was but one command, expressed by a sharp whistle or by the words
"Come here, boy!" Sam seemed determined to add no further commands
until he had secured unfailing and prompt obedience to this one. But,
slow as the process was, it was really remarkable what progress was
made in a few short hours.
At noon they took the dogs back to the shack to enjoy a rest and a dry
bone apiece, while Sam cooked and served a delicious luncheon of
buckwheat cakes, bacon, and cocoa. Then, after he had enjoyed a pipe
or two and they had listened to some of his tales of dogs and hunting,
they started out again.
This time Sam fastened a cord of good length to the dogs' collars,
something they were not used to.
"I'll need to use this later on," said he, "and they've got to get
used to the feel of it first. They've got to learn to stand it without
pullin', and to answer the signals."
Again he exhibited extraordinary patience, for the dogs resented this
unaccustomed restraint and seemed possessed to pull at their leads and
try to break away. It took a good two hours to break them to this
simple harness. Then Sam took it off and went all over the first
lesson again, which at first the dogs appeared to have forgotten.
"Well, as the minister says, here endeth the first lesson," said Sam
when the shadows of late afternoon began to lengthen, and they
turned back again toward the shack. The boys now realized that they
were very tired.
"Do you think they'll ever learn?" asked Jack, somewhat plaintively.
"Why, sure," said Sam. "I've seen worse ones than these. They're high
spirited, as good dogs ought to be, and a bit heady, but they'll
learn. They've done very well, so far."
Still doubting, but somewhat encouraged, the boys prepared to take
their departure. In order that the training might go on uninterrupted
it was necessary to leave Romulus and Remus in Sam's care, and it is a
question which felt the worse about the separation, the boys or the
dogs. Ernest and Jack knew that their pets would be in good hands and
kindly treated, but it was hard to say good-by. As for the dogs, they
set up a howling and crying, when they found they were being deserted.
"They'll soon get over that," said Sam. "They'll begin to take an
interest in the other dogs pretty soon, and then they'll feel more at
home."
Thus reassured, the boys started off down the road without their
four-footed comrades, but the insistent wails that followed them were
very heart-rending, and two big tears rolled down Jack's round cheeks.
And it was several days before they could get used to the desolate,
deserted look of Rome or become reconciled to the absence of their
playmates.
They could hardly wait for the next Saturday to come, when they could
go up again to Sam's shack and visit their beloved dogs. Romulus and
Remus were overjoyed at seeing them again, and it was some time before
Sam could get them quieted down sufficiently to take them out for
another lesson. He had been training them during the week, and the
boys now heard him addressing them with strange words. He placed their
check-cords on again, and this time the dogs did not seem to resent it
so much. Indeed, they seemed to look upon it as the preliminary of a
good time, which, as Sam explained, was the idea he had tried to
impress on them.
"Hie-on!" cried Sam, and the dogs started off at a bound.
"To-ho!" he called. This meant to stop abruptly, and this command the
dogs, hoping for a good run, did not obey so readily. A quick tug at
the check-cord reminded them of the meaning of the command, and soon
they stopped more promptly at the words.
"Come in," said Sam, and the dogs approached him.
"Charge!" said Sam. "Down!" After several attempts the dogs
reluctantly obeyed and crouched at his feet.
"Heel!" he cried, and after several repetitions of the order they took
their places quietly behind him.
"They're always a little slower the first thing in the mornin'," Sam
explained, "before they've run off some of their deviltry. They'll
improve as they go along."
And improve they did. In the afternoon Sam took them out without the
check-cord and kept perseveringly at them until they would "hie-on"
and "to-ho" and "charge" and "heel" with reasonable promptness.
"By next week I hope to show you something more," said Sam.
"When will you shoot over them and teach them to point?" asked Ernest.
"Oh, not for some time yet," said Sam. "They've got to learn the a b c
of it first. Next I shall try to teach them to answer my hand. First
I'll call and wave at the same time, and then just wave. Then they've
got to learn to range--to go whichever direction I want 'em to and
turn when I want 'em to. Then I'll give 'em lessons in retrievin'."
But before another Saturday had come around, Sam had discovered
something--something which affected the whole future career of Remus.
Ernest and Jack had duties to perform that Saturday which engaged them
the entire morning, and they were unable to go up to Sam's until
afternoon. Their visit was consequently a short one and they had but
little time to spend with Sam in the field. They found, however, that
the training had been progressing satisfactorily. Sam was allowing the
dogs to range in ever widening circles, and on the whole they were
obeying his commands in a promising manner. They were beginning to
retrieve objects, also, not as a hit-or-miss game after the manner of
Rags, but in answer to the commands "Go fetch it," and "Pick it up."
Moreover, the dogs were less homesick now that they had begun to take
an interest in their occupations and to become acquainted with the
other dogs. They seemed to understand, too, that Ernest and Jack had
not utterly deserted them but might be expected to appear at almost
any moment.
But when it came time to go home Sam detained them for a moment.
"I've got to tell you something," said he, scratching his chin and
looking a bit unhappy, "and I don't believe you'll like it much."
"Oh," cried Ernest, "can't you keep the dogs?"
"I can keep Romulus," said Sam, "but I've got to ask you to take Remus
back. I've given him every chance and I find he's hopeless as a bird
dog. He learns quick enough--quicker than Romulus if anything. But
he's got no nose, none at all, and a setter with no nose is about
useless in the field. It would be a waste of time to try to train
him, and when we got on the birds he would only get in Romulus's way
and spoil him. So I guess you'll have to take him back and let me go
ahead with the good one."
"Why, what do you mean?" inquired Jack, struggling to hide his
disappointment. "Can't he smell?"
"Oh, I s'pose he can tell spoiled fish when he gets it, but he don't
catch the scent of anything on the air. I guess it was the distemper
that did it. He had it worse than Romulus and it often spoils their
noses when they have it hard enough. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped
and it can't be cured."
For a few minutes Jack stood silent, pressing his lips together. Then
suddenly he knelt down beside Remus and hugged him passionately.
"I don't care whether you've got a nose or not, Remus," he cried. "I
don't want to go hunting, ever. Noses don't matter. You're the best
dog in the whole world, anyhow."
And so they took Remus back with them that afternoon, leaving Romulus
behind, howling mournfully for his brother.
Such reports as they received from Sam indicated that the training of
Romulus proceeded with fair rapidity during the fall. They were not
able to go up to his shack very often for one reason or another, and
Jack, at least, was not so anxious to do so as he had been. Remus
lived in solitary luxury in Rome and was in some danger of being
spoiled by the petting he received from his loyal master.
Romulus, so Ernest learned, could now retrieve at command and would
bring back a dead pigeon or other bird without rumpling its feathers.
He would also range in obedience to a wave of Sam's hand and was
gradually learning to stand fast and hold his point when he flushed a
covey of birds. Finally Sam took out his gun to shoot over him, and
the rest of his training was to be chiefly that persistent practice
which finally makes perfect.
It was decided that Romulus should remain with Sam until snow fell,
but one night there came a scratching and a whining at the door and a
series of peculiar short little barks so persistently kept up that
they awakened both the boys. They slipped on their dressing gowns and
slippers and stole downstairs.
At the door they found Romulus with a broken bit of rope tied to his
collar.
"Why," cried Jack, "it's Romulus. See, he must have broken away."
"He came all the way home alone in the dark," said Ernest. "How do you
s'pose he ever found his way?"
Romulus seemed to understand that it was not the time to make a noise,
for though he kept leaping on the boys in an access of delight and
making little sounds in his throat that were almost human, he
refrained from the loud, joyous barking that he would have indulged in
if it had been daytime. Remus had heard him, however, and was making a
considerable commotion in Rome. So the boys took Romulus quietly out
to his brother, who greeted him with paw and tongue and voice, and
bidding both dogs goodnight, they went back to the house.
So it was decided that if Romulus so much desired his own home, he
should be deprived of it no longer. Sam came down in a day or two to
find out about it.
"I thought he'd probably run home," said he, "but I wanted to make
sure. I guess we'd better leave him here now. I'm pretty near through
with him for this fall, anyway. You just bring him up once in awhile
so I can take him out and not let him forget what I've learned him."
Meanwhile the affairs of Boytown were going on much as usual. Autumn
passed in golden glory, with nutting expeditions in October in which
sometimes as many as a dozen boys and a dozen dogs joined forces. As
they started out through the town streets, Mr. Fellowes, the news
dealer and stationer, said it looked as though a circus had come to
town.
Such things, however, were of common and regular occurrence. Only two
episodes of that season deserve to be specially recorded. One was a
dog fight which for a time brought the dog-owning fraternity of
Boytown into ill repute.
For some time several of the boys had been bragging, as boys will,
about the prowess in battle of their particular dogs, and this
narrowed down at length to an unsettled controversy between Monty
Hubbard and Harry Barton. Monty maintained that the Irish terrier was
the greatest dare-devil and fighter in the canine world, and he quoted
books and individuals to prove it. Harry, on the other hand, insisted
that the bulldog's grit and tenacity were proverbial, and loudly
asserted that if Mike once got a grip on Mr. O'Brien's throat, it
would be good-by, Mr. O'Brien.
It is only fair to the boys to state that it was the Irish terrier
that started the fracas on his own initiative. He was a scrappy
terrier, always ready to start something, and it usually required
considerable vigilance to keep him out of trouble. But it must be
confessed that on this particular occasion his master did not exert
the usual restraint.
It happened out on the road that Ernest and Jack so often took when
they visited Sam Bumpus or Trapper's Cave. Mr. O'Brien had been
annoying the other dogs for some little time, rushing and barking at
them and inviting a friendly encounter. He was not vicious, but he
loved a tussle. Finally Mike the bulldog, usually so long-suffering,
lost patience and turned on Mr. O'Brien with a menacing snarl that
seemed to mean business. For a moment the Irishman stood still in
surprise, while Mike, his head held low, waited with a stubborn look
in his eyes.
[Illustration: Irish Terrier]
That was clearly the time for interference, but I regret to say that
instead of interfering, the boys grouped themselves about with
feelings of not unpleasant anticipation. I further regret to say that
Ernest Whipple was one of the most interested.
Suddenly Mr. O'Brien, recovering from his surprise, returned to the
attack with an impetuous rush which nearly bowled Mike over. But
Mike was heavier than Mr. O'Brien and stood very solidly on his four
outspread feet. He merely turned about and presented a terrifying
front to his more active antagonist. Again Mr. O'Brien rushed, seeking
a hold on Mike's big, muscular neck.
For a time Mr. O'Brien seemed to be having the best of it. He took the
offensive and seemed to be on all sides of Mike at once. The bulldog's
ear was bleeding and Harry urged him to retaliate.
Suddenly Mike raised his huge bulk and bore down the lighter dog
beneath his weight. Then he began methodically seeking the vice-like
hold that would have meant the last of Mr. O'Brien.
Just at that moment, however, a diversion occurred.
"Here, there, what are you doin'?" demanded a man's hoarse voice, and
Sam Bumpus came striding into the thick of it. Without the slightest
fear or hesitation, though such an act was decidedly not without
danger, he darted in and seized the dogs by their collars, one in each
hand, and displaying wonderful strength of arm he dragged them apart.
If Mike had succeeded in getting his hold, if Sam had come up a minute
later, he could not have done it. As it was, he held the snarling,
struggling dogs at arm's length, shook them, and then ordered their
masters to take them in charge and keep them apart.
Ernest had never seen Sam angry before; he was usually the embodiment
of even-tempered good humor. But he was angry now. His jaws snapped
and his eyes flashed, and he seemed to be itching to give somebody a
good spanking. At last he spoke.
"I thought you boys was fond of dogs," he said. "I thought you made a
great fuss about bein' kind to animals. You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves, settin' two good dogs on to fight each other. Don't you
know no better? Dogs are built to fight, and they ought to know how to
when it's necessary, but any man or boy that starts 'em fightin' for
sport is a coward."
Without another word he turned and vanished into the woods. The boys
made no comments, either, and I am glad to say that most of them were
about as ashamed of themselves as boys can be. By common consent the
afternoon's expedition was abandoned and the company dispersed.
But that was not all of it. The story of the dog fight leaked out, and
there was more than one home in Boytown in which a boy was warned that
if anything of that kind happened again there would be no more dogs in
that family. And Monty Hubbard received something even more impressive
than a lecture. Mrs. Hammond, when she heard of it, was wise enough to
say nothing until the matter had cooled down somewhat. Then she took
occasion to set forth her views in a way that the boys never forgot,
and there was never another encouraged dog fight in that town.
The other incident which I spoke of was the strange disappearance of
Romulus. One morning he was gone and he did not return home all that
day. Ernest searched for him in vain and went to bed that night with a
very heavy heart. The next day Romulus did not appear, nor the next.
Acting on his father's advice, Ernest placed an advertisement in the
paper and offered a reward, but without result. Little by little
Ernest was forced to give up hope, and a very disconsolate boy he was.
Jack and Remus did their best to console him, but he grieved night and
day. No one could suggest what had become of Romulus.
Then, on the evening of the fifth day, a slight scratching was heard
at the door, and a low whine. Ernest, who was studying his lessons,
heard it first. Dropping his book on the floor, he rushed out, closely
followed by Jack and Mr. Whipple. There lay Romulus on the door mat,
"all in," as Sam Bumpus would have said. He was so weak and weary that
he could hardly rise, and the wonder was that he had been able to drag
himself home. A piece of rope attached to his collar showed that he
had broken loose from somewhere, and bleeding feet testified to the
distance he had come. Ernest lifted him in his arms and buried his
face in the dog's shaggy coat, and Romulus responded as well as he
could with a warm, moist tongue and a wagging tail.
After they had given him a dinner of warm broth and had made him
comfortable in Rome, Mr. Whipple succeeded at last in dragging Ernest
away.
"He'll be all right now," said Mr. Whipple. "He's exhausted, but he'll
soon recover from that. He's a young dog, you know."
"But where could he have been?" wondered Jack.
"It's my belief that he was stolen," said Mr. Whipple. "Someone who
knew he was a valuable dog stole him, but I doubt if we shall ever
learn who it was. But he must have been taken some distance away. He
looks as though he might have traveled thirty miles or more."
"How do you s'pose he ever found his way back?" asked Jack.
Mr. Whipple shook his head. "Dogs are wonderful creatures," said he.