THE PASSING OF RAGS
Camp Britches was pitched on a Wednesday, and the first week flew by
on winged feet. On the second Saturday an event occurred which the
boys had been looking forward to with anticipation. Mr. Hartshorn came
in his car to spend Sunday at the camp. He brought none of his dogs
with him, which was a source of regret, but he was a most welcome
visitor, nevertheless.
The boys feared that the appointments of their camp might not be quite
elegant enough for a man like Mr. Hartshorn, but he fitted in as
though he had been brought up to just that sort of thing and said it
was all bully. Frank Stoddard moved out and crowded into the other
tent, and a special bed was laid for the visitor. Moses outdid himself
in planning his Sunday menu.
Mr. Hartshorn arrived too late to be shown about the lake that day,
but supper was a jolly meal and a new interest was added to the
campfire hour that night.
Mr. Hartshorn had shown considerable interest in MacTavish and Rover,
both of whom he pronounced to be fine dogs, and this led to a
general discussion of sheepdogs and their kin.
"I wish you'd tell us something about bob-tails, Mr. Hartshorn," said
Elliot Garfield. "I really don't know a thing about them, and I ought
to, now I've got one."
"Please do," echoed Ernest Whipple. "You promised you'd tell us about
the shepherd breeds sometime."
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, laughing, "it's pretty near bedtime,
anyway, so if I put you to sleep it won't much matter. For my own
part, though, I'd rather listen to another of Alfred's stories."
The night was chilly, so he went to his car and got his auto robe,
wrapped himself up in it, lighted a cigar, and settled himself
comfortably beside the campfire.
"You may have noticed," he began, "that some breeds of dogs seem to
possess more individual character than others. Foxhounds, for example,
seem to me a good deal alike. That is because they live and work
mostly in packs. It is the constant association of a single dog with
his master that develops the traits of personality in him. No dogs
have had this personality more highly developed than the shepherd
breeds, for they have been the shepherds' personal companions, often
their only companions, for generations. They are, therefore, most
interesting dogs to know and to talk about.
"Of these shepherd breeds the best known is the collie. It is, in
fact, one of the most popular and numerous of all the breeds. The
modern collie, of which Mac here is a good example, has been developed
for beauty, as a show dog and companion rather than a working dog, but
he is a direct descendant of the old working collie of the Scottish
Highlands, which has been a distinct breed and has been used as a
shepherd's dog for centuries. The old working collie or shepherd dog,
which is still numerous in Scotland, is a splendid utility animal of
great intelligence and initiative, brave as a lion, and trained to
guard sheep.
"Though a straight development without much crossing with other
breeds, the modern collie is almost a different variety, with a
narrower head and muzzle, better pointed ears, and a fuller and finer
coat. From the fancier's point of view he is a great improvement on
the working dog, and he certainly is handsomer, but in my own humble
opinion the fanciers are well-nigh ruining the splendid character of
one of the best breeds of dogs ever given to man. For one thing, they
have made the head so narrow and snipey, imitating that of the Russian
wolfhound, that they have left insufficient room in the skull for all
the brains the old collie used to possess. And with this fineness of
breeding has come some uncertainty of disposition. The modern collie
isn't usually given a chance to learn the things his forefathers knew,
so how can we expect the same mental development? Mac, I am glad to
say, is not of the extreme type. He would doubtless be beaten in the
shows, but he is a better dog, for all that. The older type used to be
more common here, but has gradually been driven out by the show type
which began to be taken up about 1880.
[Illustration: Collie]
"The Scotch are great people for dog stories, and a good many of their
tales are about collies. Bob, Son of Battle, was an old-fashioned
collie. Many of the anecdotes that are told as true stories deal
with the breed's wonderful sagacity in caring for sheep. There was the
Ettrick Shepherd's famous collie Sirrah, for example. He could
undoubtedly do amazing things with sheep. One night something scared
the lambs, and they started off for the hills, dividing into three
groups. The shepherd called his dog and his assistant and started out
in the hope of rounding up at least one of the groups before morning.
But the night was dark and the hills a wilderness, and the two men
were at last forced to give up the attempt until daylight. At dawn,
when they started out again, what was their astonishment to see Sirrah
coming in with the lost lambs--not one group only, but the whole
flock. How he managed to get one group after the other, no one could
ever say, but between midnight and dawn he rounded them all up alone,
and not one was missing.
"This herding instinct is very strong in the collie. I once met a
modern collie in Des Moines, Iowa, who, because he had no sheep to
attend to, busied himself with the chickens, and he would never
consider his day's work finished until he had carefully herded all the
Rhode Island Reds into one corner of the poultry yard, and all the
Plymouth Rocks into another.
"Cases are on record of collies that were taught to steal for their
masters, by systematically driving off sheep from neighboring
flocks. Many stories deal with the collie's intelligence in fetching
help to a man or animal in danger. One collie brought in a flock of
half-frozen hens, one by one, that had strayed away from the barnyard
and got caught in a blizzard. He carried them tenderly in his mouth,
depositing them in a row before the open fire. Another collie brought
home a strayed horse by the bridle.
"Shepherd collies are wonderful with the sheep, but the so-called
house collie is often more generally wise and adaptable. Hector, a son
of Sirrah, was such a dog, and his master, a Mr. Hogg of Ettrick, has
told many amusing stories about him. He was always getting into
mischief, and Mr. Hogg's mother vowed he should never go visiting with
her, for, as she put it, 'he was always fighting with other dogs,
singing music, or breeding some uproar or other.' But with all that,
he was so intelligent, and seemed to understand so many things in
advance, that she used to say, 'I think the beast is no canny.'
"His master's father was one of the church elders of the place, and at
one time accepted the post of precentor. He knew only one tune
well--'St. Paul's'--and this he used to give out twice each Sunday. To
save the congregation from too great a dose of 'St. Paul's,' the son
agreed to relieve him of his duties. But here Hector, accustomed to
his master's company on Sundays, objected. He would follow him to
church, and when he heard his master's voice inside, he would raise
his in the churchyard, much to the amusement of the shepherds and the
country lassies. 'Sometimes,' said Mr. Hogg, 'there would be only the
two of us joining in the hymn.' The result was that he was forced to
resign, and the church was obliged to carry on as best it could with
the old precentor and 'St. Paul's.'
"Hector exhibited strange motives and peculiar logic sometimes. He was
jealous of the house cat and hated her, but he never touched her or
threatened to do her any harm. He merely kept a suspicious eye on her,
pointing her as a setter points a bird. He used to join in family
prayers, and just before the final 'Amen,' he would leap to his feet
and dash madly about, barking loudly. It was easy to understand how he
knew when the 'Amen' was approaching, but why the excitement that
followed? 'I found out by accident,' wrote Mr. Hogg. 'As we were
kneeling there, he thought we were all pointing Pussy, and he wanted
to be among the first at the death.'
"Next we come to Rover's breed. Old English sheepdog is its official
name, but I think it might better be called the bob-tailed sheepdog to
distinguish it from the original smooth sheepdog of England. In many
respects it is quite unlike any other breed that comes from England.
He was formerly used by English drovers as a cattle dog, but we know
little of his history. The bob-tail is the hairiest of the large dogs
and one of the most striking of all breeds in appearance. Some of the
puppies are born tailless, while others have their tails removed
within a few days after birth. The bob-tail is an active, swift,
intelligent dog and, as you know if you have watched Rover, very
playful and very expressive with his paws. Having no tail to wag, he
wags his whole hind quarters to let you know he is pleased or
friendly.
"The German shepherd dog has had a remarkable boom since its
introduction here in 1912. It is an old breed in Germany and its
appearance strongly suggests wolf blood in its ancestry. Originally a
shepherd's dog, and still used as such, this breed has shown itself
remarkably adaptable to police dog work and has been used in the war
more than any other breed. The German shepherd dog is not as gently
affectionate as some breeds, but is intelligent, active, alert, brave,
and loyal.
"I think I should also speak of the Belgian sheepdog, partly because
we are all interested in Belgium these days, and partly because we
have begun to get a few of these dogs over here. They are said to be
even cleverer police dogs than the Germans. A few have been
successfully used over here by police departments of New York and
vicinity, and a few fanciers have become interested in the
Groenendaele variety and have exhibited specimens in the Westminster
show."
"What do police dogs do?" inquired Herbie Pierson.
"I have never seen them at work on the other side," said Mr.
Hartshorn, "but I understand they are a recognized part of the police
service in many cities of France, Austria, Belgium, Holland, and
Germany. They are said to do wonderful things, such as rounding up
gangs of thieves, trailing criminals, and saving drowning persons,
including would-be suicides. In this country their usefulness has been
rather the prevention of crime. I have visited the dog squad, in the
Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There they are muzzled and are not
expected to attack people. They are taken out at night with the
patrolmen and scout around in back yards and anywhere that a burglar
or hold-up man might be lurking. The criminals don't like that idea,
and they have kept away from that section pretty consistently. I
believe these dogs have also found persons freezing in the snow.
Airedales have been tried out as well as Belgian and German shepherd
dogs. For trailing criminals and finding lost persons, the bloodhound
is most commonly used in this country, but I believe some rather
remarkable feats of trailing have been accomplished by Belgian
sheepdogs at Englewood and Ridgewood, New Jersey."
"They are used mostly as ambulance dogs in the war, aren't they?"
asked Harry Barton.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn. "You have probably seen pictures of them
bringing in a wounded man's helmet, to guide the stretcher bearers to
where he lies. They are also used as messengers and for sentry duty in
the listening posts, where they are much quicker than the men to
detect the approach of a raiding party or an enemy patrol. I could
tell you some interesting and thrilling stories that I've heard about
these war dogs, but I for one am getting sleepy and I'd like to try
out that balsam bed and see if I like it."
There was a little less skylarking that night out of respect to the
honored visitor, and so everyone got a good rest and was up betimes in
the morning. After breakfast Mr. Hartshorn asked to be shown about the
country near the camp, and everybody joined in the expedition,
including the dogs.
"I suppose these dogs are all pretty well acquainted with one another
now," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I must say it is wonderful how well
they get along together. It all shows the power of human
companionship. Kennel dogs like mine couldn't stand this sort of
thing for an hour. It must be that Rags and Rover keep them all
good-natured."
Sunday passed quietly and pleasantly and then came another evening
campfire. Some of the boys begged Mr. Hartshorn to tell them about
more breeds of dogs, but he laughingly refused.
"Sometime I'll tell you about the hound and greyhound families, but
not now. You've had enough," said he. "Besides, I came here to loaf,
not to teach a class. Let's have one of Alfred's stories."
"I'm afraid I've told them all," said Alfred. "I've tried to think of
more, but I guess there aren't any."
"We've all told our stock of stories," said Horace. "You're the only
one with a fresh supply. I guess it's up to you, Mr. Hartshorn."
"The trouble is," said he, "I'm no story teller, but I'll read you
something, if you'd like to hear it. I have quite a library of dog
literature, both fact and fiction, and I've tried to collect every
good thing that has been written about dogs. I selected two stories
that are fairly short and brought them along, thinking there might
develop a need for entertainment of that kind. Would you like to hear
them?"
A shout of unanimous approval went up. Two of the boys ran to Mr.
Hartshorn's car for the books, and another brought a lighted lantern
and placed it on a box at his elbow. Then they grouped themselves
about the fire again and listened with absorbed attention while he
read them two of the best short dog stories in his collection--"The
Bar Sinister," by Richard Harding Davis, and "Stikeen" by John Muir.
"My! Aren't those fine!" exclaimed Ernest Whipple.
"Haven't you any more?" begged Elliot Garfield.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm sorry to say I haven't any more with
me, but I shall be glad to lend my books to any of you boys who will
promise to return them. They are very precious. I'd like nothing
better than to introduce you to the dogs of literature. They're a
great lot."
Then he proceeded to tell them something of the best known of these
books--"Bob, Son of Battle," Ouida's "A Dog of Flanders," Jack
London's stories, and a number of others.
"But I think," he concluded, "that the one I like best of all is the
true story of a little Skye terrier named Greyfriars Bobby, one of the
most faithful dogs that ever lived."
"Oh, please tell us about him," begged Frank Stoddard.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I would only spoil the story. You must read
the book for yourselves. It will give you something to do next winter
when you can't go camping out, and I can promise you a rare treat."
The next morning Mr. Hartshorn was obliged to leave, and everyone was
up bright and early to see him off. He thanked them all for one of the
jolliest week-ends he had ever spent, and promised to invite them to a
campfire of reminiscence at Willowdale sometime. Then he got into his
car and started the motor.
I presume he had never taken part in so boisterous a departure. The
rough woods road was difficult enough to drive in at best, and the
boys and dogs crowded about the car, shouting and barking their
farewells. In spite of all Alfred and Horace could do, some of the
more venturesome jumped upon the running boards and rode a little way,
while the dogs, catching the spirit of excitement, dashed about in
front and everywhere. Alfred and Horace rushed in to quiet the
confusion, but before they could get the boys and dogs in hand a sharp
yelp of pain sounded and poor old Rags lay, a helpless, pathetic
figure, in the wheel rut behind the car.
No one knew, in the confusion, just how it had happened. Mr. Hartshorn
had been driving as slowly and carefully as he could under
difficulties. A moment before Rags had been barking riotously and
leaping at the hand of his master who stood perched precariously on
the running board. Now he lay, mute and motionless, all the joy gone
out of him, his eyes raised in dumb pleading to his master's face.
A sudden hush fell over the noisy crowd. Even the dogs seemed to know
that something dreadful had happened. Mr. Hartshorn stopped his car
and leaped out. Jimmie Rogers was kneeling on the ground beside his
beloved dog, his face very white, and Rags was feebly trying to lick
his master's hand.
Jimmie did not weep or cry out, but when Mr. Hartshorn came up, there
was a pleading look in the eyes he lifted to the man's face which was
much like the look in the eyes of the dog. Jimmie did not ask any
questions. He only moved over a little while Mr. Hartshorn leaned over
and tenderly felt of poor Rags's broken body.
"I must have gone square over him with both wheels," said he. "Poor
little Rags! I wouldn't have done it, old boy, if I'd seen you. You
know that, don't you?"
The dog's forgiving tongue gave him his answer. Mr. Hartshorn did not
scold the boys, but they all knew they had been to blame, and no
amount of scolding could have made them feel any more remorseful. They
stood about in silent shame and dread. The irrepressible Mr. O'Brien
trotted up to see what it was all about, sniffed at Rags, and then
walked slowly away, raising questioning eyes to his master's face.
When Mr. Hartshorn arose he was winking very hard and biting his lip.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" asked Horace.
"I'm afraid so," said he. "We must get him away at once. Jump into the
car, Jimmie, and come along with me."
He made a soft bed of the auto robe on the floor of the car, lifted
Rags tenderly in his arms, and laid him on it.
"Watch him, and keep him as comfortable as possible," he directed
Jimmie.
That was all that was said, and the car started off again, leaving
grief and woe at Camp Britches.
Mr. Hartshorn lost no time in getting back to Boytown, though he was
careful not to subject the suffering dog to the pain of rough riding.
At Boytown he jumped out and telegraphed to Bridgeport to command the
attendance of the best veterinary surgeon in the state. Then they sped
on to Willowdale.
They took Rags out to the little building that was used as a dog
hospital and made him as comfortable as they could. Mrs. Hartshorn
herself brought him a dish of water which he lapped gratefully. He
bore his pain heroically, but he was suffering terribly, and Tom
Poultice thought best to administer a merciful opiate. Then he made a
thorough examination.
"There's ribs broke," he said, "and I guess 'e's 'urt hinternal."
"Then there's nothing we can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
Tom shook his head sorrowfully.
After awhile the effects of the drug wore off and Rags opened his
eyes. Tom put his hand on the dog's heart and shook his head
dubiously.
"I'm afraid 'e's going, sir," said he.
Mr. Hartshorn placed his arm about Jimmie's heaving shoulders and drew
him toward the dog, who seemed to be begging for one last caress of
his master's hand. Mrs. Hartshorn put her handkerchief to her eyes and
hurried out.
The surgeon arrived soon after noon, but it was too late. Rags had
died in Jimmie's arms.