THE COMING OF TATTERS
After the unfortunate episode that resulted in the accident to Rags,
it was as though a cloud rested over Camp Britches. There was no heart
for merrymaking. And when at last the sad news came of Rags's death,
it seemed as though all the joy had gone out of life. If you have
never been a boy, you do not know how quickly a mood of hilarious
jollity can be followed by one of deep depression. The plan had been
to continue in camp for four or five days more, and some of the boys
had been begging for a longer extension of the time, but now no one
seriously objected when Alfred and Horace proposed breaking camp and
going home. Every boy in camp had loved Rags next to his own dog, and
even Moses went about in an atmosphere of melancholy.
Sadly they hauled down Jimmie's humorous ensign and pulled up the tent
pegs. It seemed like a different crowd of boys from that which had so
joyously arrived in the wagons but two short weeks before.
On a sunny hillside half a mile south of the brickyard there grew, at
the edge of the woods, a beautiful little grove of dogwoods, which
in May was always a fairyland of snowy blossoms that almost seemed to
float in the air. In this peaceful spot it was decided to bury the
poor, broken body of Rags. I doubt if there has ever been a funeral in
Boytown that was attended by more sincere mourners. Harry Barton and
Monty Hubbard spent an afternoon, immediately after their return from
camp, making a simple little casket of white wood which they stained a
cherry color. It did not seem fitting that so gay a little dog as Rags
should be laid to rest in a black one. They lined it with soft
flannel, and Jimmie himself, trying hard not to cry, placed the stiff
little body inside, still wearing the old, worn collar, and nailed
down the top. Theron Hammond and Ernest Whipple were appointed to act
as bearers.
The Camp Britches boys were not the only ones who joined in that
sorrowful little procession to the dogwood grove. Jimmie's mother was
there, quietly weeping, for she had loved Rags like another child, and
with her were two or three of her neighbors. Mr. Fellowes closed up
his store and silently joined them, and there was a little knot of
girls with mournful faces, who had also known Rags and loved him. Mr.
and Mrs. Hartshorn came over from Willowdale and, leaving their car in
the town, followed the little casket on foot with the rest.
There was no clergyman present to read Scripture or to pray, but I
think the mourners were none the less devout. The whole ceremony, in
fact, was carried through in almost utter silence. It had been thought
best not to bring dogs who might not behave themselves, but Mike and
Hamlet were there, for they could be depended upon, and it seemed
fitting that Rags's canine friends as well as his human friends should
be represented.
A grave was dug in the sand and the little casket was lowered into it.
Beside it Jimmie placed the battered tin dish that Rags had used and a
much-chewed ladder rung that had been his favorite plaything. The
girls threw in some flowers and then the earth was shoveled in again
and the little company returned home.
I hope the loyal soul of Rags was where it could look down and see
that his old friends cared and had come to do him honor. At least his
life had been a happy one and free from any guile. And he was not soon
forgotten. Not long afterward there appeared at the head of the little
mound beneath the dogwoods a simple headstone, the gift of Mrs.
Hartshorn, and on it were inscribed these words:
HERE LIES RAGS
The Best-Loved Dog
in Boytown.
For some little time the cloud remained over Boytown and there was
little disposition to take any active part in canine affairs. But
youthful spirits cannot long remain depressed, and as the autumn days
approached, one of the boys of Boytown, at least, discovered a new
interest in connection with dog ownership. That was Ernest Whipple.
For some time Sam Bumpus had been talking, somewhat vaguely, of the
possibility of testing out the powers of Romulus in the field trials,
and Mr. Hartshorn himself had occasionally mentioned this. Ernest
subscribed to a popular kennel paper, and early in September he began
reading about the All-American trials to be held at Denbigh, North
Dakota, and other similar events. The names of famous dogs were
mentioned, both pointers and setters, and there was much speculation
in the paper as to the prospects of winning. The thing fascinated
Ernest, but it was all a bit unintelligible to him. He wanted to learn
more about this sport that seemed to be followed by such a large and
enthusiastic number of people, and to find out the way of getting
Romulus into it. So one day he and Jack took their dogs and walked to
Willowdale, for the express purpose of getting the desired
information.
Tom Poultice was the first person they encountered, and he confessed
himself to be rather ignorant as to the conduct of American field
trials.
"I've seen many of them in Hengland," said he, "and a great game it
is. Get a bunch of fine bird dogs out in the fields in the fine
weather, with a big crowd following them, and maybe a bit of wagering
going on be'ind the judges' backs, and the dogs all eager to be after
the birds, and every one of them in the pink, and you've got a fine
sport, men. The dogs seem to know, too, and they go in for all's in
it. But just 'ow they run the trials over 'ere, I can't say. You'd
better ask Mr. 'Artshorn. 'E used to own bird dogs once, and I'll
warrant 'e's been all through it."
They found Mr. Hartshorn in his den, but he very gladly laid aside the
work he was doing and asked good-naturedly what the trouble was now.
"We've come to ask you to tell us about field trials," said Ernest.
"Well, that's a rather big contract," laughed Mr. Hartshorn. "I
suppose I could talk about field trials all night. I've seen some
thrilling contests in my time. Just what is it you would like to
know?"
"We want to know what a field trial is, how it is run, and what the
dogs do," said Ernest.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "a field trial is more than a mere race.
It's a real sport in which all the powers of a bird dog are brought
into play. It's a competition on actual game--prairie chickens or
quail, usually. The dogs are sent out to find the game and point,
with the judges and handlers and the gallery, as the spectators are
called, following. In the big trials there are three or more separate
events. One is called the Derby stake, for dogs under two years of
age. Then there is the All-Age stake, which is the biggest one.
Finally there is the Championship stake, for dogs specially qualified,
and the winning of that brings with it the highest honors in the
bird-dog world.
"The order of running is decided by lot, and the dogs are put down in
pairs. They start off after the birds and work for a stated length of
time, after which the judges decide which of the two dogs won, the
decision being based on speed, form, steadiness, bird-work, and
everything else that goes to make up the bird dog's special power.
Then these winners are tried together until the best and the second
best, called the runner-up, are chosen in each of the stakes. It takes
a good dog to win one of these stakes, for he has to run more than
once and his work must be consistent. Purses are offered by the clubs
as prizes, amounting to several hundred dollars at the big events.
"Occasionally there are other stakes, such as novice stakes and events
in which dogs are handled only by their owners. In the big events the
great dogs are usually handled by professionals, who take the dogs
right down the circuit and win all the prizes they can. The trials
begin in September in Manitoba and North Dakota, on prairie chicken,
and are followed by big and small events in the Middle Western states,
Pennsylvania, and finally in the South. The biggest of all is held in
December or January at Grand Junction, Tennessee, every year. Here the
All-America Field Trial Club holds its classic event, in which the
winner of the Championship stake is pronounced the amateur champion of
the United States for one year, winning also a large purse and a
handsome silver trophy."
"Have you ever seen one of those trials?" asked Jack.
"Several times," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I have seen some of the most
famous pointers and setters that ever lived run at Grand Junction and
win their deathless laurels."
"I suppose Romulus wouldn't stand a chance there," said Ernest, a bit
wistfully.
"Perhaps not, at first," said Mr. Hartshorn, "though you never can
tell. It's a pretty expensive matter, getting a dog ready and putting
him through one of those trials, even though the prizes are large. But
there are smaller ones, and it is possible to try a dog out nearer
home the first time, with less risk and expense. During the spring
there are many trials held by local clubs throughout the East."
"Couldn't Romulus be entered in one of those?" asked Ernest.
"I don't know why not," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I'll look it up and let
you know. Meanwhile, tell Sam Bumpus what you're up to and have him
keep Romulus in shape this winter."
"I suppose Remus couldn't run," said Jack.
"I'm afraid not, my boy," said Mr. Hartshorn, kindly. "Nose is one of
the prime requisites, and Remus hasn't the nose, as you know."
"I don't care," said the loyal Jack. "I'd rather win at a bench show,
anyway."
When Ernest told Sam Bumpus about the plan, that worthy was much
interested. He made a special trip all the way to Willowdale to
consult Mr. Hartshorn, and between them they worked out a plan. Sam
was enthusiastic now as to the superior abilities of Romulus as a bird
dog, and he presently took him in hand for special training to improve
his form and the other qualities that count in the trials. Off and on
all winter Sam took the dog out, patiently and persistently drilling
him. Sometimes Ernest went along and he was amazed by the intelligence
and speed which his good dog displayed. When spring came again Sam
announced that there was nothing more that he could do to improve the
form and capacity of Romulus.
"I'll back him against any bird dog in the state of Connecticut," said
he, proudly.
But before I tell how it fared with Romulus at the trials, I have one
episode to relate, the only happening of that winter which needs to be
recorded. For the rest, the weeks passed without any momentous event,
with the boys in whom we are interested growing ever a little older
and wiser. And this particular thing was not of great importance,
perhaps. It did not greatly affect the boy-and-dog life of Boytown.
But it did affect Jimmie Rogers, and Jimmie, since the death of Rags,
had been the one lonely, pathetic figure in the group. It would be a
shame not to tell of the thing that happened to him.
One day in early December Dick Wheaton appeared on Main Street,
dragging a forlorn-looking little dog by a string. He was a
smooth-coated dog of the terrier type, a rich chocolate brown in
color, with an active body and a good face and head, but anybody could
see he was only a mongrel. No one knew where he had come from and Dick
did not take the trouble to tell where he had found him.
In his present state the dog showed none of the alert, eager character
of the well-born terrier. He held his tail between his legs and he
cringed abjectly. This seemed to amuse Dick Wheaton. He made little
rushes at the dog and laughed to see the terror in his eyes. He
found entertainment in tapping the dog's toes with his foot and
watching him pull back on the string. Wearying of this, he began
maltreating the helpless animal more cruelly.
Mr. Fellowes saw all this from the window of his store, and his blood
boiled within him. Unable to stand it any longer, he started out of
his shop to protest, when he saw Jimmie Rogers come running along.
There could be no doubt as to Jimmie's purpose. His lips were tight
set and his eyes were blazing. He came close up to Dick and seized his
arm.
"Quit that!" cried Jimmie between his clenched teeth.
Dick was taller and heavier than Jimmie and he was not unaccustomed to
bullying boys of Jimmie's size. He shook off the hand and grinned
insolently.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Humane Society?" he asked.
"I'll show you, if you don't leave that dog alone," said Jimmie.
For answer, Dick gave the string a jerk. It was tied tightly around
the dog's neck, and it hurt.
"Whose dog is this, I'd like to know," said Dick in a taunting tone.
Jimmie wasted no more breath in words. He snatched the string out of
Dick's hand and faced him defiantly. Dick, now angry in his turn, made
a lunge for the string. Mr. Fellowes couldn't see who struck the
first blow, but in a moment the two boys were fighting desperately,
Jimmie making up in fire and determination for what he lacked in size
and strength.
Mr. Fellowes felt that he was called upon to interfere. It would
hardly do to let a fight like this go on right in front of his shop,
on the sidewalk of Main Street. Besides, other people were hurrying up
and it might end in serious trouble.
Just then Dick managed to break free long enough to give the poor dog
a vicious and entirely uncalled-for kick, as though he were in this
way scoring an advantage over his opponent. The little terrier rolled
over and over on the sidewalk, yelping in pain and terror. Then he
found his footing and dashed blindly into Mr. Fellowes's legs.
The shopkeeper stooped and picked up the frightened little stray and
took him into the store, where he did his best to soothe and comfort
him, and it was wonderful how promptly the little chap responded and
licked the kind man's hand. It may have been the first time he had
ever tasted the milk of human kindness, but instinctively he
understood and looked up confidently into this stranger's eyes with an
expression of gratitude.
Meanwhile, a little knot of men and boys had gathered out in front of
the shop. It so happened that they were persons who would rather
witness a fight than stop it, or it may have been that there were some
of them who hoped that for once Dick Wheaton would get his deserts. At
any rate, it was a real fight, with no quarter, and it would have been
a cold-blooded person indeed who could not admire the pluck of Jimmie
Rogers. His nose was bleeding and his breath came in sobbing gasps,
but he kept at it with unabated fury. Three times Dick Wheaton threw
him, and three times he jumped to his feet and went for Dick.
The fighting of boys is no more to be encouraged than the fighting of
dogs, but there seem to be times in the affairs of boys as well as of
men when nothing but fighting will serve. The only way to cure a bully
is to thrash him, and if anyone ever had a justifiable motive for
fighting it was Jimmie Rogers.
At length Dick's blows appeared to be growing weaker. Jimmie, unable
often to reach his face, had been pummelling him consistently on the
vulnerable spot at the lower end of the breastbone, regardless of the
punishment he himself received, and these tactics were beginning to
tell on Dick's wind. His lips were parted, his eyes staring, and his
face took on a strange mottled look. He began to strike out weakly and
to concern himself chiefly with parrying Jimmie's troublesome blows
and protecting his stomach.
With lowered guard, Dick staggered uncertainly backward, and Jimmie,
rushing in, dealt him a smashing blow on the mouth that sent him
reeling. Tripping over the door stone of Mr. Fellowes's store, he fell
heavily, and lay there, with his arm crooked over his face, awaiting
he knew not what final _coup de grace_ in an attitude of abject
surrender.
Men rushed in now, but Jimmie was satisfied. He shook off their hands
and walked, somewhat unsteadily, into the store, and Mr. Fellowes
closed the door behind him. Someone picked Dick up.
"Well, I guess you've had enough," said this unsympathetic person.
Dick Wheaton slunk off home without replying.
Mr. Fellowes did not refer to the fight. He did not think it proper to
praise Jimmie, for he did not believe in boys fighting, but he could
not resist a feeling of proud satisfaction.
"Want to see the dog?" he asked.
"Yes," said Jimmie in a tremulous voice. He was almost crying with
weariness and he was doing his best to wipe the blood off his face and
brush the dust off his clothes.
"Let me help you," said Mr. Fellowes, kindly.
While he was bathing Jimmie's face, the boy felt a pair of little paws
reaching up on his leg, and a cold little nose thrust into his hand.
He stooped down and patted the little head. The tail came out from
between the dog's legs and wagged joyfully. Impulsively Jimmie caught
him up and hugged him close. It seemed a long time to Jimmie Rogers
since he had felt the moist caress of a loving tongue, and the thing
went straight to his lonely heart.
During all the fighting he had steadfastly held back the tears of pain
or anger, but now, weakened as he was by his exertions and the after
effects of excitement, he burst into tears, burying his face in the
little dog's warm, soft coat.
"Oh, little dog, little dog, you're going to be mine!" he cried.
Mr. Fellowes said not a word. While caring for the dog during the
fight, he had been thinking what a fine thing it would be to keep him,
to fill the place so long left vacant by the death of his Bounce. But
now, as he watched Jimmie, he made the sacrifice. This should be
Jimmie's dog. The boy had fairly won him. Mr. Fellowes understood how
he felt; he, too, had lost a dog. So he merely stroked the dog's head
and said, "What shall you call him?"
"Tatters," said Jimmie, and still carrying the dog tenderly in his
arms, he started out of the shop. At the door he turned back, with the
flash in his eye again. "And I'd like to see anybody try to take him
away from me," he said.
"I guess nobody will," said Mr. Fellowes, smiling, and Jimmie bore his
burden proudly home.
It was wonderful what a change a few days of kindness and good feeding
wrought in Tatters. He never became the favorite that Rags had been,
but he was a good dog, not without excellences and wisdom of his own,
and Jimmie loved him. And the change that came over Jimmie was hardly
less marked. With another dog for his own he was himself again, and
everyone rejoiced with him. On Christmas Day Mr. Fellowes saw to it
that the dogs' Santa Claus presented Tatters with a fine new collar.