Tip was not much of a dog, so far as looks go--never had been, even
in his young doghood days. There was too much of just ordinary dog in
his ancestry. He was part hound, which gave him those floppy, big ears
and that long, lean body. His tail, which was not long enough for a
real, honest-to-goodness hound to have, was somewhat like that of his
grandmother, who was a mongrel with some shepherd blood. From this tail
Tip acquired his name, for on the end of it was a white tip. The rest
of his body was brown, shading into yellow, which, had he been of more
aristocratic lineage, would have been _golden brown_.
Fate often picks just ordinary men in the lowly walks of life for
the laurels. Such was the case with Tip, who was no longer young,
and moreover was afflicted with rheumatism, caused by his having no
suitable place to sleep on cold, dark nights. He was chosen in his old
days to perform the crowning act of his life and to become a hero.
The old corncrib with the leaky roof was Tip’s bedroom. He had only
one old grain sack to lie upon. On one of those cold, rainy nights
in November, it happened. It was just the time of year when every
farmer’s wife is counting on returns for her summer’s work, through the
marketing of her nice, fat poultry; and it was also the season when
poultry thieves thrive and are busy plying their unlawful business.
Tip had only that evening helped his mistress round up every stray fowl
on the place, and she had shut them securely in the chicken house, to
be ready for the buyer who was due in the morning to purchase the fat
hens and turkeys. Tip had inspected the premises for the last time.
Then, considering it safe to do so, he had turned around twice, as is
the habit of all dogs, and laid down to sleep.
After his first nap, he awoke. Did he hear or scent something? Not
yet really wide awake, he sat up, flapping back his big ears in order
to hear more clearly. Surely that sound was something worth giving
attention to. He would investigate. Stretching his long body to awaken
it fully, he looked out, and what he saw was a small light on the end
of something that looked, to him, like a stick. It was up against the
poultry house door.
Now, as I told you, Tip was old and had gained wisdom with years. A
younger dog would have been more rash; but not Tip. He was cautious.
Slipping around the corner, he waited to see what would happen. Soon
he saw the door open and two men enter the poultry house. Now was his
chance for action. Bounding behind the door, he slammed it shut. As he
did so, the bolt slipped into place and, as the key, which had been
left in the keyhole, fell out at the same time, he had his prisoners
secure. Then he did some lusty barking. Such whoops of “bow-wow!” such
howls did he set up, that in a short time he had the family aroused.
This action of his was the means of breaking up an organized band of
poultry thieves in that neighborhood; and this feat also earned poor
old Tip his laurels.