ON HULSE'S POND
A week or so after the Massatucket Show, when Ernest Whipple's kennel
paper arrived, he and Jack scrutinized it eagerly for the account of
the show. The man who reported it had a great deal to say, in more or
less technical terms, about a good many of the dogs. He seemed to
pride himself on his ability to pick future winners and he was rather
free with his predictions. Romulus he mentioned favorably in passing,
referring to his enviable field-trial record. But to Remus he devoted
an entire paragraph.
"This dog," he wrote, "owned by Master Jack Whipple, is a twin brother
to the afore-mentioned Romulus. Barring a slight weakness in the loins
and a look of wispiness about the stern, he was set down in good shape
and easily defeated the other novices. He has the classic type of
Laverack head, and this had much to do with his being placed reserve
to Ch. The Marquis in the winners class. He is a young dog, and with
proper treatment he should figure in the primary contests of next
winter. We predict a bright future on the bench for this Remus."
Incidentally the boys were pleased to learn that Tippecanoe and Tyler
Too had won the prize for the best brace of beagles in the show,
besides some individual honors, and they rejoiced for their
bright-faced little acquaintances of the baggage car.
The triumph of Remus was not short-lived. The residents of Boytown
learned through the local papers what had happened, and began to look
with a new interest upon these boys and their dogs as they passed
along the streets. Romulus came to be pointed out to strangers as a
coming field-trial champion, and Remus as a famous bench-show winner.
Such dogs were something for the citizens of any town to be proud of.
And there were not a few persons who gained thereby a new interest in
dogs, to the lasting betterment of their characters.
As the autumn days came on, Ernest began to feel the call of the woods
and fields, and begged to be allowed to have a gun and go hunting with
Sam Bumpus. He was now a tall, good-looking lad of fifteen, and he
felt himself quite old enough to become a hunter. Besides, what is the
use of owning a fine bird dog if you don't hunt with him?
Mrs. Whipple strongly objected, for she was afraid of guns, and at
last a compromise was reached. Ernest was to be allowed to go hunting
with Sam provided he would not ask to own or use a gun until he was
sixteen, and reluctantly he consented to this arrangement. Jack, who
was still only twelve, had not yet caught the hunting fever, and since
he owned a dog that could not hunt anyway, he was content to remain at
home, while Ernest spent his Saturdays afield with Sam.
Sam Bumpus, during the past three years, had grown to be a less lonely
man. Through the boys he had made friends in town, and people began to
look upon him as less queer and to recognize his sterling virtues. And
all that made him happier.
"It was a lucky day for me," he once said, "when I brought those
puppies down in my pockets."
"It was a luckier day for us," responded Ernest with warmth.
Now, tramping together 'cross country with their dogs, they became
even closer friends, and there was implanted in Ernest's character a
certain honesty and a love of nature that never left him. And withal,
it was great fun.
Then came another winter, and one day, during the Christmas vacation,
Mr. Hartshorn invited the whole crowd of boys up to his house to enjoy
an indoor campfire. Mrs. Hartshorn, as usual, spread her table with a
wealth of good things to eat, and after the dinner they all gathered
in the big living-room, where huge logs were blazing and crackling in
the fireplace.
"I only wish," said Ernest Whipple, "that there were more breeds of
dogs for you to tell us about, Mr. Hartshorn. I always enjoyed those
talks so much."
"Do you think you know all about all the breeds now?" asked Mr.
Hartshorn, with a smile.
"Well, no," confessed Ernest, "but I know something about them all,
and I have one or two good books to refer to. I guess there's always
more to be learned about everything."
"That is true," said their host, "and fortunately there are always
good things being written about dogs by men who know them. I never let
a chance go by to add to my own fund of dog lore."
Alfred Hammond and Horace Ames, who were home from college for the
holidays, were present at the campfire, and Alfred was now loudly
called upon for a dog story, Mr. Hartshorn insisting that he had told
every one he knew. Finally Alfred acceded to the demand.
"I ran across two anecdotes the other day which may fill the bill,"
said he. "I think they are both about collies, but I am not sure. The
first is about a Scotchman and his dog Brutus. The Scotchman, having
gone far out of his way in a storm, stopped at a lonely house and
asked for a shelter for the night. The owner of the house admitted him
and showed him to a chamber, and the Scotchman, being very weary,
prepared to go to bed.
"Brutus, however, was not so readily satisfied with his strange
surroundings and proceeded to investigate. At length he returned to
his master and began tugging at the bedclothes. The Scotchman was at
last sufficiently aroused to follow the dog out of the room and down
the stairs, and Brutus led him to the door of a closed room and
sniffed at it very cautiously. Light which made its way through the
cracks indicated that the room was occupied. The Scotchman could find
no hole to peep through, but much to his surprise he heard several
voices, for he thought that he and his host were alone in the house.
"He placed his ear to the door and heard enough to make him believe
that his life was in danger. He was a brave man, and prompt action
seemed necessary. Suddenly he pushed open the door and rushed in,
surprising half a dozen men. They reached for their weapons, but the
traveler was ready first. With his pistol he shot his host and cracked
another over the head. Brutus, meanwhile, attacked so vigorously and
to such good purpose that the man and his dog were able to escape
uninjured. He afterwards learned that the house where he had sought
hospitality was the resort of a gang of highwaymen.
"The other story is rather tragic, but I guess I'll tell it, as it's
the only one I have left. A traveling merchant in England was riding
along on horseback, when he dropped a bag containing all his money. He
was quite unconscious of his loss, but his dog had seen the bag fall.
The dog began to run in front of the horse's head, barking, and
dashing back along the road, but the merchant, who must have been
uncommonly stupid, I think, did not understand the meaning of his
strange actions. The dog became more insistent, as the man urged his
horse ahead, barking in an unusual tone and snapping at the horse's
feet.
"The merchant, who apparently did not know dogs very well, began to
fear that he was going mad. 'Mad dogs will not drink,' he reflected.
'At the next ford I will watch, and if he does not drink I must shoot
him.'
"Of course, the dog was much too anxious and excited to drink at the
next ford, and his master shot him. After riding on a little way the
man began to be troubled with doubts and misgivings, and he turned his
horse about. When he reached the ford again, the dog was not there,
but the man traced him back along the road by the marks of his blood.
"The merchant found his dog at last, lying beside the money-bag,
protecting his master's property with his last gasp. Remorsefully the
merchant stooped down and begged the dog's forgiveness. The faithful
animal licked his hand and looked up at him with eyes that seemed to
say, 'It's all right, my master. You didn't understand.'"
No more stories being forthcoming, the talk soon drifted to other
things. The boys vied with one another in telling of instances which
illustrated the superior courage, intelligence, and faithfulness of
their own dogs, and then fell into reminiscence. They talked of the
awakening of interest in the dogs of Boytown and what it had meant to
each of them, of the activities of the Boytown Humane Society, of the
Boytown Dog Show in Morton's barn, of the days at Camp Britches and
the death of beloved Rags, of the Eastern Connecticut field trials and
the winning of Romulus, of the Massatucket Dog Show and the triumph of
Remus, and of all the good times the boys and their dogs had had
together. They quoted Sam Bumpus's quaint sayings and Tom Poultice's
good advice about the care of dogs, and they told dog stories that
they had read.
"I don't see how anybody can help loving dogs," said Elliot Garfield.
"There are men who hate them, though," said Mr. Hartshorn. "American
sheep growers, for example, are bitterly opposed to dogs, and many of
them would like to see the canine race annihilated. And it must be
admitted that the dog forms the greatest obstacle in the path of
increasing the important sheep-raising industry in the United States.
Dogs do kill sheep, and there's no denying it."
"I thought there were laws to protect the sheep," said Ernest Whipple.
"There are," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Some of them are good and some of
them are bad. Some of them place it in the sheep man's power to take
the law into his own hands and act as judge, jury, and executioner on
the spot, which of course is all wrong. But unfortunately the best of
the laws do not protect the sheep. The state may pay damages, but that
does not restore the slain sheep."
"I don't see what can be done, then," said Theron Hammond, dolefully.
"For one thing," said Mr. Hartshorn, "more study should be put on
these laws before they are passed. They should not be drawn up by
either partisans of the dog or of the sheep. They should aim to
eliminate ownerless dogs and to make all owners responsible for the
acts of their dogs. On the other hand, the sheep owners should not be
allowed to collect damages unless they can show that they have taken
due precautions on their own part, such as the erection of dog-tight
fences. A man has to keep up his fences to keep his neighbor's cows
out of his corn, or he has no redress. Why shouldn't a sheep owner be
compelled to do likewise? But the real cure for the menace of the
sheep-killing dog is more dog. The American sheep men don't seem to
have learned the lesson that the past has tried to teach them. For
centuries the trained shepherd dog has been the protection of the
flock in all sheep-raising countries, and is so to-day in Great
Britain, Europe, and Australia. I don't believe there are a dozen
first-class trained shepherd dogs in this country, except in the Far
West. In Scotland there are more dogs to the square mile than there
are in the United States, yet the Scotch don't try to legislate the
dog out of existence. The Scotch shepherd never thinks of taking out
his flock without his trained collie, and the result is that few sheep
are killed either by stray dogs or wild animals. When the American
sheep growers learn their lesson from the shepherds of other
countries, overcome their prejudice against the dog, and adopt the
method that has been successfully employed for centuries in other
countries, they will solve this problem, and not until then. I hope to
see the day come when the sheep man is numbered among the dog's best
friends here as he is in Scotland."
A lively discussion followed, and then, still talking dogs, the boys
trudged home in the moonlight, over the crisp snow.
A few days later the whole crowd was out skating on Hulse's Pond. A
week of clear, cold weather following a thaw had made ideal skating,
and Boytown was making the most of it. There were a number of young
men and girls out and a few older devotees of the sport, but the boys
and their dogs had full possession of one end of the pond. Here a game
of hockey was in progress, which was somewhat interfered with by the
activities of Tatters, who had grown into a fine, lively, sport-loving
dog. He seemed to think the game was arranged for his special benefit,
and he chased the puck to and fro across the ice wherever it went.
Another general favorite was Rover, who never tired of racing with the
skaters and particularly enjoyed pulling the younger children about on
their sleds. These small children had another name for him--Santa
Claus--and he indeed looked the part. Others of the dogs were enjoying
the sport, too, though Romulus and Remus showed a tendency to leave
the ice and go scouting off on imaginary trails in the neighborhood.
Suddenly, while the fun was at its height, a sharp cry arose from the
upper end of the pond where the brook ran in. It was different from
the other shouts and cries that rang out over the ice; there was
terror in it. The loud, insistent barking of Tatters immediately
followed.
The hockey game was interrupted, and everyone looked toward that end
of the pond to see what could be the matter. Tatters was running
excitedly about the edge of a hole where the ice had broken in, and in
the black water appeared the head and shoulders of little Eddie
Greene, who had ventured too near a dangerous spot and had broken
through the thin ice.
The sounds of merrymaking suddenly ceased, and there was a general
rush in that direction. The bigger boys threw themselves flat on the
ice and tried to reach out to Eddie with their hands, but the ice
cracked alarmingly beneath the weight of so many of them, and they
dared not approach too close.
"Get back, boys, get back!" cried Theron Hammond, who was always a
leader. "Get back, or we'll all go in."
They saw that such a catastrophe would only make bad matters worse and
obeyed the command. Only Theron and Harry Barton remained to try to
reach the frightened little fellow, and they could not get near him.
The water was deep, and Eddie was struggling wildly to keep from going
under the ice, which broke off wherever he grasped it.
"Keep calm, Eddie," called Theron, but Eddie was terrified and could
not keep calm. His head went under once, and he seemed to be
weakening. Meanwhile Ernest Whipple and one or two of the others had
kicked off their skates and had run off in search of boards or fence
rails to throw across the hole, but there seemed to be none near by
and help was a long time coming. It began to look as though they would
be too late.
It was a tense moment. Some of the little girls had begun to cry, and
there was one young lady who gave way to hysterics. No one seemed to
know what to do. It was awful to stand there and watch the little
fellow drown before their eyes.
Then there came a sudden rush and a plunge and the black and white
head of Remus appeared beside that of the drowning boy. Though an
aristocrat of the bench show, this good dog had a brain that worked
quickly and a heart that knew no fear.
It was a good thing that Remus had learned to be such a good swimmer
in days gone by; he had need of all his strength and skill now. He
seized the boy's collar in his teeth and struggled to drag him out.
But it could not be done. The ice broke repeatedly under the dog's
paws, and it was all he could do to keep the boy's head and his own
above water. He could only struggle bravely and cast imploring looks
toward the helpless humans. The water was ice-cold, of course, and it
sapped the good dog's strength. His efforts weakened and he tried no
more to climb out, but he never relaxed his hold. He would have gone
down to his death with the boy before he would have done that.
Both heads went below the surface and came up again, and the dogged,
imploring look deepened in Remus's eyes. Jack Whipple called words of
encouragement, and it was pitiful to watch the noble dog's efforts to
respond. It was wonderful the way he held out, and in the end he won.
When it seemed as though the last atom of his strength must have been
spent, Ernest Whipple came running up with a plank which he threw
across the hole. Remus rested his paws on this and so was able to keep
from going under, but he had no strength left to drag himself and the
boy out. Eddie was now unconscious, and could not help himself. Then
Elliot Garfield and two other boys arrived with boards and fence
rails, and with these they built a sort of bridge across the dangerous
gap. Theron crawled cautiously out upon this, with Harry Barton
holding to his feet. He grasped Remus's collar, and with Harry's help
dragged the boy and the dog to firm ice.
Eddie was seized in friendly arms and was rubbed and rolled until he
revived. Remus fell, faint and trembling, to the ice, and Jack
Whipple, unconscious of his own sobs, gathered the heroic dog to his
breast.