Recounting that last event reminds me of a well-beloved character in our
cape days--one, too, that was destined to play an important part in our
little drama.
Ugly was his name; Trusty Greatheart it should have been.
Ugly was a clipped-eared, setter-tailed, short-legged, long-haired,
black-nosed, bright-eyed little mongrel. In limiting his ancestry to no
particular aristocratic family, he could prove some of the blood of
many. There were evident traces of the water-spaniel, the Skye terrier,
and that most beautiful of all the hound family--the beagle.
I do not know what education Ugly may have had in his earlier days, but
I believe it to have been limited, though his acquirements were great.
I believe him to have been a canine genius. He was as ready on the
water as on the land. His feats of diving and swimming were remarkable;
and a better rabbit-dog and more sagacious, courageous watchdog never
lived. As to the languages, I will acknowledge he could speak none; but
he understood English perfectly, and never failed to construe rightly
any of Mr Clare's Latin addresses--much better than ever Walter could
do. Indeed, Mr Clare's commands to and conversations with Ugly were
always in Latin.
Of his rare sagacity and unbounded affection there are proofs to be
furnished further on in this narrative.
Harry Higginson and Walter had guns, and they alone of our number were
allowed to use them. That exclusion never caused me any regrets, nor do
I think it troubled Alfred Higginson, but it was a constant pain to
Drake. He loved a gun, and his most golden dream of manhood's happiness
was the possession of a good fowling-piece. The prohibition of our
parents, however, was so stringent in this particular that poor Drake
never sighted along the bright barrels nor even touched the well-oiled
stocks but once while we were at the cape.
There they stood, always ready, in a corner of our attic--where Drake,
Alf, and I could not touch them, but ready at any time for the pleasure
of Walter and Harry.
Walter was an accomplished shot, and Harry was not a bad one. Harry had
not had the training of Walter, whom my father had taught--not
commencing with stationary objects, but with targets thrown in the air,
and small, slow-winged birds as they flitted near the ground. My father
had at first made him practise for a long time without caps, powder, or
shot, merely in quickly bringing the stock close to the shoulder, and
getting the eye directly behind the breech. When proficiency in that
had become a mechanical habit, the gun was loaded, and then commenced
the practice of shooting at moving objects. As the art of bringing the
gun properly to the cheek had been so thoroughly mastered as to require
no effort nor attention, Walter could, when an object was thrown up,
direct all his care to bringing the muzzle of the piece--the sight--
directly on that object. My father's reason for teaching him first to
shoot at flying marks was to prevent the habit of dwelling long on an
aim--that habit of following or _poking_ at the bird which ruins good
shooting, and prevents the possibility of becoming a good snap shot.
And so, afterwards, Drake and I were taught; and boys who are learning
to shoot will find, that by remembering and practising the method I have
described, instead of commencing by taking long, deliberate aims at
stationary objects, they will get ahead surprisingly fast, far
outstripping those who learn by the latter way.
In our rambles about the cape, Ugly soon displayed his talent for
rabbit-hunting. He would smell where Bunny had been wandering and
follow the track until he started Miss Long-ears from her covert, and
then the fun began--the rabbit leaping off in frightened haste, running
for life, winding and dodging about over the swells of the sparse grass
hillocks, while Ugly, mad with excitement, spread his long, low body
down to the chase. How the little fellow would put in his nose close to
the ground, staunch on the trail as the best-blooded hound, and making
the air ring with his sharp but musical bark! I tell you that was fun!
Ugly always stuck to his game until he had run it to its burrow. He had
not the speed to overtake it.
The summer is not the proper season for rabbit-shooting; so Walter, who
was never to be tempted by the best chance of killing game even a day
out of season, would not permit either Harry or himself to shoot at the
objects of Ugly's furious energy until it was legitimate. That conduct
of Walter and Harry was beyond Ugly's comprehension. I have often seen
him try to understand it. The chase having ended as usual in a safe
burrow, I have noticed Ugly--who, after a very short experience, had
learned not to waste his time in vain digging--turn toward us with a
waddling, disconsolate trot, and having approached a few rods, stop and
sit down to revolve the puzzle over in his mind. He would look where
the rabbit had housed himself, then drop his head, cock up an ear, and
cast an inquiring glance toward us, as much as to say: "Why, _do_ tell
Ugly why you did not shoot that old lap-ears? Ah!" That operation he
would repeat several times before rejoining us, and when he had come up
he would cock his head first one side and then the other, and look into
our faces with most beseeching questioning in those great, keen, brown
eyes of his. Then he would hang behind on our way home, evidently
greatly distressed at his ignorance.
Never mind, good Ugly! I believe you were fully rewarded for weeks of
bewilderment when the time did come for knocking over bunnies.
One afternoon, in returning from one of those rambles, we met our salt
tute hurrying towards us in a great state of haste and perspiration.
When near enough for his hoarse bass voice to reach us, he hailed--
"Well, there you are, boys, at last! I have been hunting for you all
over the cape for the last hour. Ah! Ugly, boy, are you glad to see
the old Captain trudging over the rabbit-ground? Eh? shaggy boy! And
you have been running the bunnies till you are blown, and your masters
would not shoot--eh? Well, no matter; the Captain shall bring his
marline-spike along some day, and help you bag them. But, my
affectionate pup, do you take a turn in that tail, or you'll wag it off
some windy day."
So Ugly sat down--a long, red, wet tongue hanging from the side of his
mouth--and whipped the grass between the Captain's boots with that
restless tail until we came up.
"Why, Captain Mugford," said Walter, "I did not know you ever wanted
_us_."
"No? Well, I do though, just now. You see, boys, as to-morrow will be
Saturday, with every prospect of fair weather and a good breeze, I
thought we might go on a cruise--start early, get our meals on board,
run off to the fishing-grounds, and make a voyage of general
exploration. And to do this we must get our traps aboard this evening,
and see that everything is in order on board the _Youth_."
"Good! nothing could suit us better, Captain. I'll run to the house
with the guns," said Harry, "and we can all go at once off to the
_Youth_."
"Mr Clare," continued Captain Mugford, "can't go with us, he says, but
must walk over to Q---town and spend the day. That's a pity, for I
calculated on having a capital time all together, on a voyage like this
one we propose."
"Well, we boys," said Walter, "will ask him this evening to put off his
visit. Perhaps he may change his mind."
When Harry returned we went down to our cutter, all in great spirits on
account of the fun proposed for the next day.
Getting on board, we mopped and swabbed her out well, overhauled the
ropes and sails, and hauled down the pennant to take home with us for
Juno to mend where it had frayed out on the point. That work being
completed, we went to the house for such provisions as we should want on
our excursion. Juno put up a large supply for one day--ground coffee,
eggs, biscuit, cold mutton, a cold turkey, and several currant and apple
pies, besides butter, salt, etcetera--and Clump conveyed it down to the
_Youth_ for us on a wheelbarrow.
The provisions were carefully stowed in the forepeak, and everything
being arranged, we appointed Ugly to act as a guard over our craft
during the night.
Harry briefly explained it to him. "Look here, Ugly, you are to stay
here to-night and look after the things. Of course you are not to come
ashore or leave duty for a minute. We shall be down early in the
morning. Be ready to receive us with proper ceremonies, for we are off
on a cruise, old boatswain, to-morrow. Look, Ugly; I put your supper in
this stern locker. Do you see?"
Ugly was at first rather disappointed at the prospect of being separated
from us for the night, but as Harry's harangue proceeded and he began to
comprehend the honour of the duty required aboard ship, he bristled up
and grew as stiff and important as his inches would allow. He turned
his nose to watch where the supper was placed, and then walked forward
and took a seat on the bow assuming a comical air of "captaincy;" so
pantomimic was it that Captain Mugford laughed aloud, and said: "Well
done, Ugly; where, my fine fellow, did you learn quarterdeck airs?"
"Good-night, Captain Ugly," we cried, as we pushed for the shore in the
punt. "Good-night, boy; can't you say something, Captain Gruff?"
At which address Ugly rose up and, putting his forefeet on the larboard
gunwale, barked three loud, clear notes, and we gave three laughing
cheers as he returned to his post by the bowsprit.
Before going to bed that night, I went out in the kitchen to put a pair
of my shoes to dry, and found Clump and Juno, as usual in the evenings,
smoking and dozing over the fire.
Wondering at the amount of comfort these old folk seemed to find in
tobacco, I asked Clump why he smoked so much.
"Fur constellation, Massa Bob--fur constellation; dat's ol," he
answered.
"Oh, that is it, Clump--consolation, eh? Well, I must get a pipe some
time and try it," I said.
"No, Massa Bob," joined in Juno, who was knocking out the ashes from her
pipe on the head of the fire-dog--"no, Massa Bob you'se munno 'moke.
'Spects, ef you'se do, you find de way tur constollaton, dat ole Clump
talk of, cum tru much tribble-laison--he! he! he!"
I had to laugh at the old woman's wit. As for Clump, he rubbed his
shins and "yaw-ha'd" over his wife's speech for five minutes.
As I was going off to bed, Juno called me back in a hesitating way, and
said in a low, frightened voice: "Massa Bob, sum-how dis ole woman ees
'feared 'bout ter'morrow. You'se gwine sure?"
"Of course, Juno," I replied. "And what are you afraid of? I would not
stay at home for ten pounds."
"Dis chile's sorry--sorry," she continued, "but de Lor' ees my strong
'an my sheel." She was speaking very slowly, and had bent over the fire
to rake the ashes together. She went on muttering some more of the
Bible texts she always called on in any perplexity, until a new idea
flashed to her from some uncovered ember, and she turned quickly,
laughing in a low, shrill way, "He! he! he! woy'se ole Juno afeer'd?
He! he! he! 'spects it on'y debbil dat has tole lies to dis poor ole
nigger when she's 'sleep."