Produced by Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: “Pep sniffed at his master’s face eagerly.”
_Page 96_]
[Illustration]
PEP
The Story of a
Brave Dog
[Illustration]
_By_
CLARENCE HAWKES
_ILLUSTRATED By_
WILLIAM VAN DRESSER
MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY
SPRINGFIELD · MASSACHUSETTS
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1922
BY MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY
Springfield, Massachusetts
All Rights Reserved
Bradley Quality Books
Printed in United States of America
_To Dog-Lovers,
the whole world over,
this book is fraternally
dedicated_
INTRODUCTION
A FRIEND TO MAN
By CLARENCE HAWKES
It is almost like a stern irony of fate, that man’s faithful, gentle
friend, the dog, should have sprung from one of the most thoroughly
hated and despised brutes in the animal kingdom, the wolf.
Yet this is a scientific fact. The wolf, with all his meanness and
skulking cunning, is the progenitor of man’s friend, the dog.
They belong to the same family, their breeding habits are alike, and
the wolf is as surely the father of the dog, as was brute man, the cave
dweller, the ancestor of the highly civilized creature we now know.
In the case of the man it has taken untold ages to bring about the
change, and so it has in the case of the dog. When in the dark ages
the brute man crouched over his campfire, gazing fearfully into the
darkness about him, encompassed by superstition and ignorance, the gray
wolf hung upon the outskirts of his campfire.
This man creature, that ran upon two legs instead of four, who had such
strange power over fire and water, and over the forces of nature and
the wild kindred, fascinated and drew him with a terrible power.
Try as he would he could not keep away from him. Often this man
creature wounded him with his sharp stick. He also poisoned the wolf
pack, but still they could not be driven away, for it was an unwritten
law of nature that some day they should be inseparable.
So the wolf skulked upon the trail of the primitive man, until the
famine, or the cold, or some other stern necessity brought them
together.
Indians, even now in the far north, often take the wolf whelps from the
den and play with them, and they refer to the wolf as “Grandfather’s
dog,” showing that they understand the gradual evolution of the dog.
You can better understand this if you visit any of their villages where
the dogs even now are little more than partly domesticated wolves,
wolfish in habits, and looks. Such is the Husky, the famous team dog
of the frozen north, without whose help the wealth of the Klondyke and
other remote places could hardly have been brought to the outside world.
The collie, which is one of the most faithful and lovable of the dog
kind, is not so far removed from a wolf, and it is very easy for him
to slip back to his wolf ancestry. There are many instances on record
where collies have gone back to the wild and mated and run with the
gray pack. Put a collie pup into a wolf den with a litter of wolf
whelps and the old wolf will suckle him as her own. He will be brought
up as a young wolf; will learn to hunt in the pack, and to stalk his
game like a veritable wolf. Of course he will not be as fierce as his
wolf brother, and he will still retain certain dog characteristics,
but he will pass for a wolf in most particulars, while in two or three
generations he will be a veritable wolf.
When we consider all the varieties of dogs ranging from the great Dane
of nearly two hundred pounds weight, to the smallest toy dog coming
from Japan, this statement that all dogs are descended from wolves
seems almost incredible, but all this change has been wrought by man
himself. Breeding and selection for certain qualities have been the
method by means of which he has attained such varied results.
Climate, and the use to which the dog has been put has also played its
part. Nature always adapts her creatures to their surroundings, and
the dog is no exception to this rule. He has been molded like all of
nature’s other creatures. Where he needed long hair to shield him from
the cold he has been given a long, thick coat, and where he could not
bear a coat because of the heat it has been left off.
Certain types of dogs there are that have become famous all over the
world, some for their beauty and others for their usefulness, but
usually for both qualities.
Every child is familiar with the St. Bernard dogs and their work in the
Alpine passes, saving lost travelers in the terrible storms of those
great heights. Perhaps the most famous of all those great dogs was
Barry, whose record as a life saver covered a long period of years, and
who is credited with saving forty lives.
This is a record that any man might well be proud of, and one that few
men have attained.
Equally famous, and perhaps even more useful as a helper of man are
the Scotch collies and the sheep and cattle dogs of England and
Scotland. In countries where wolves are numerous these fine dogs are
indispensable, and in some sections it would be impossible to guard
the flock without them. The training of a fine sheep dog has become a
science, and something that the shepherds take a deal of pride in. In
order to encourage the breeding of finely trained dogs, each year in
many parts of England and Scotland contests of sheep herding dogs are
held. Then great crowds of people from far and near gather and all the
fine sheep dogs are brought hither and put through their paces. Finally
when all have contested, the judges award the cup or other trophy to
the shepherd whose dog has made the best showing. Such an event is
finely described in that famous dog story, “Bob, Son of Battle.”
The wolfhounds of Russia, which are taught to run in packs and pull
down their wild kindred, and hold them until the men come up are
equally famous, if not so useful. But wolves in Russia are considered
vermin so these dogs do a good work in helping to exterminate the pest.
The Czar of all the Russias was himself interested in wolf coursing and
is reported to have owned the finest pack of wolf dogs in the world.
The Alaskan dog teams are famous throughout the world; not only for the
very material service that they render man in traveling over the frozen
lands where not even a burrow could travel, but also because of the
famous races that are held each year in Alaska.
Then the fastest teams in the North are brought together, a course of
perhaps four hundred miles is selected, and at a crack of the pistol
the teams are off to run the course, in competition for a sweep stake
of ten thousand dollars.
Two men constitute the drivers. One rides for a ways upon the back of
the sled, guiding it by what is called gee-pole, while the other runs
behind. When the man who is running is tired he takes his turn upon the
sled, while the other man runs. By alternating in this way, and only
one riding at a time, fifty and sixty miles can be covered in a single
day, and in their races even more.
These Husky dogs with their thick coats and tough constitutions are
wonderfully adapted to such strenuous work. They are fed but once a day
and then only a pound of dry fish. After they have eaten this slight
meal, they will bury themselves in the snow, putting their noses and
their paws into their shaggy tails for warmth, and sleep soundly with
the thermometer at fifty and sixty below zero.
Their masters in the meantime are sleeping in their rabbit skin
sleeping bags, which weigh from six to twelve pounds.
Hard as the work is yet these faithful sled dogs are eager for each
day’s work and are nearly heartbroken if they are unable to take their
places in the traces.
The teams driven by white men are driven tandem, while Indian teams are
fan shaped, each dog being hitched to the sled by a separate thong.
Of hunting dogs there are many varieties which are always of the utmost
importance to frontier peoples, where they guard the flocks and the
premises from all kinds of four-footed marauders. Upon the frontier
these dogs also assist in the chase and thus furnish meat for the table
and help rid the country of vermin, such beasts as the wolf that have
to go before civilization is secure.
These hunting dogs also serve a less important use among the leisure
class. Field trials of pointers and setters have become important
events in the annals of dogs, while the running of greyhounds and
wolfhounds is a national sport in some countries.
But what shall we say of the house dog, who is one of the family?
The sharer of all our joys and sorrows: the one from whom we have no
secrets: the social intimate whose tail is a perfect barometer of
sunshine and storm in the family: the custodian of the premises, who
always sleeps with one eye open, and one ear cocked for the sound of
prowlers: the friend of the children who follows them about like a
shadow, watchful lest any danger threaten them, often sharing in their
romps with all the zest of a boy.
This dumb creature worships you, to him you are a sort of God--often a
rather sorry God, hardly worthy of his worship; yet a God to him, one
whom he can look up to, can serve and love.
How empty the door mat would be without him. How silent the premises
without his occasional cheerful bark.
Do cares oppress you and is the burden of life heavy, are you cast
down and unable to see a sunbeam through the shadows? Look over in the
corner. Your own anxious mood is reflected upon the face of your dog.
He is the very picture of misery, uneasy and longing to comfort you.
Presently he will come over to you unable to stand it any longer and
put his nose into your hand, or fall to licking it frantically. He is
not forward or aggressive, but full of humility and abasement. He
knows he is only a dog, while you are a dog’s God, but he wants to
comfort you, to take your load upon his own shoulders and help you bear
it.
Soon his paws are planted upon your knees and he looks up into your
face beseechingly. He wags his tail and tries to smile, suggesting that
you laugh it off. Then he jumps down and runs about the room to attract
your attention by his funny pranks, or perhaps he even barks once in a
deprecating way, but he is soon back again licking your face.
If you are perfectly impassive and silent, he becomes almost frantic
and will run about the room whining, often returning to look up into
your face as though to pry out the trouble. Then he is down again. His
tail droops and his face is a picture of despair.
Now he is whining softly to himself. If you do not speak to him soon
and reassure him that the trouble is not past mending he will lift up
his voice and howl, just as his ancestors, the wolves, howled ages ago
upon the desolate plains.
The great Ibsen in “The Pretenders” epitomizes this fidelity of the
dog when he causes King Skule to say: “I must have some one by me who
sinks his own will utterly in mine, who believes in me unflinchingly,
who will cling close to me in good-hap and ill, who lives only to shed
warmth and light over my life, and must die if I fall.” And Jatgeir
replies, “Buy yourself a dog, My Lord.”
Many other great men have understood and appreciated this faithful
creature. Pope said, “Histories are more full of the examples of the
fidelity of dogs than of friends.” Josh Billings exclaims in his
humorous way, “A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more
than he loves himself.” Tennyson in a simple but truthful couplet sings,
“Faithful and true will be found upon four short legs,
Ten times for one upon two.”
It was Eugene Field who said that a little rough dog can awaken a joy
that enters eternity.
The small boy who ties a can to the dog’s tail and then laughs as
the frantic creature runs yelping down the street, or perhaps shies
a stone at him, knows not that this same despised canine may drag
him from a watery grave, or from a burning building on the morrow.
A hundred to one the dog would remember neither the tin can nor the
stone, if he saw the boy in peril.
Forgiveness is the dog’s long suit. So if to err is human and to
forgive is divine, then the dog must have a spark of that great love in
his brute heart that knows how to forgive.
Even more culpable than the boy with his thoughtless cruelty is the man
with his deliberate cruelty, the brute who makes this faithful creature
the butt for his ill will. There is a deal of truth in the statement
of Roland Hill that every man’s dog or his horse knows whether he be a
Christian or not.
Where in the annals of mere humans, is there a story as touching in its
absolute fidelity as that of “Gray Friar’s Bobby?” Lest this wonderful
true story may not be familiar to you I give it here very briefly, the
account being taken from our Four Footed Friends:
During the fifties there lived in Midlothian a farmer named Grey. This
man, like others of his calling, was generally to be found in Edinburgh
every Wednesday, attending the market, accompanied always by his shaggy
terrier, Bobby. It was Grey’s custom, as the time-gun announced the
hour of one from the Castle heights, to repair to a small restaurant
in the neighborhood of Greyfriars’ Churchyard, known by the name of
Traill’s Dining Rooms. Here Bobby and his master had their midday meal,
which in the case of the doggie consisted regularly of a bun.
In 1858 Grey died, and was laid to rest near the historic church
of Greyfriars, aptly named by Sir Walter Scott “the Westminster of
Scotland.” On the third day following the funeral, and just as the
echoes of the time-gun were dying away, the occupants of Traill’s rooms
were surprised to see a dog, the picture of woe and hunger, enter the
doorway and approach the proprietor, upon whom he gazed with a most
beseeching expression.
Traill immediately recognized in this visitor the once happy and
well-cared-for Bobby. Stirred with compassion, he gave a bun to the
silent pleader, who then, without waiting to eat it, ran out of the
shop carrying his newly-found meal in his mouth. Next day at the
same hour Bobby again appeared, and repetition of events followed;
but on the third day, Traill, whose curiosity and interest were now
thoroughly aroused, determined to follow the dog, and thus discover
his destination. This was soon reached, for Bobby, bun in mouth, made
straight for Greyfriars’ Churchyard where, approaching the grave of
his master, he lay down and began to eat his scanty meal. It was now
evident that the chief, if not the only mourner of the kind-hearted
farmer, had been his four-footed friend Bobby, who, after following
his late master’s funeral procession, had then refused to leave the
humble mound which marked his grave, until forced to do so by the pangs
of hunger. Bobby’s plight and the locality of his new domicile having
come to the knowledge of the occupants of his former home, he was
brought back, it is said, three times. However, all efforts to make
him relinquish his chosen post proved unavailing and each attempt was
followed by a speedy return to the same spot in Greyfriars. Here Bobby
continued to spend both days and nights, taking refuge only in rough
weather under a tombstone hard by, and stoutly resisting all friendly
advances made by the compassionate strangers desirous of providing
a home for him. In course of time a shelter was erected for his
protection near his master’s grave. He continued his daily visits to
the restaurant, arriving punctually at the same hour, and never failing
to receive his bun from the kind-hearted proprietor. This went on for
nine years when, owing to a more rigorous enforcement of the seven
shillings yearly dog license, Bobby was arrested as a “vagrant,” and
appeared in court accompanied by his humane sympathizer and defender,
the restaurant keeper, who was accused of harboring the dog. They were
tried before three magistrates who, after hearing the story, tempered
the law with mercy and forgave him for not paying his rates, thus
saving Bobby from an untimely end.
This remarkable dog, who, by an irony of fate, had great length of days
granted to him, lived until 1872, and then, like his master, was buried
in Greyfriars’ Churchyard, where his grave, now marked by a rose bush,
is often pointed out to visitors. A short time before Bobby’s death
the Baroness Burdett-Coutts visited Greyfriars, and the sight of the
Highland mourner so interested her, that when his demise occurred, she
obtained permission to erect at the street corner, near the churchyard
gate, a granite fountain with an effigy of the inconsolable dog sitting
on guard.
How can I better close this unworthy monograph upon man’s faithful
friend, than by quoting Senator Vest’s immortal tribute to the dog
delivered before a Missouri jury. He certainly epitomizes the subject
as no one else has.
“Gentlemen of the Jury: The best friend a man has in this world may
turn against him and become his enemy. His son and daughter that he has
reared with loving care may become ungrateful. Those who are nearest
and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good
name, may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has
he may lose. It flies away from him when he may need it most. Man’s
reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill considered action.
The people who are prone to fall on their knees and do us honor when
success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when
failure settles its cloud upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish
friend a man may have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts
him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is the dog.
“Gentlemen of the Jury: A man’s dog stands by him in prosperity and
poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground,
when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may
be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to
offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with
the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as
if he were a prince.
“When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and
reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun
in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth
an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog
asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him
against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last scene
of all comes and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is
laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue
their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head
between his paws and his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness,
faithful and true even to death.”
PEP
The Story of a Brave Dog
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A BLUE RIBBON DOG 25
II THE RUNAWAY 38
III THE CROSSING 56
IV THE HOSPITAL 73
V THE BATTLEFIELD 90
VI THE RESCUE 105
VII HOMEWARD BOUND 116
PEP: THE STORY OF A BRAVE DOG
CHAPTER I
A BLUE RIBBON DOG
Pep sat up very straight at his end of the car seat and looked hard out
of the window. This was his usual amusement when he and his master were
traveling. But he did not travel often, as his master was a very busy
man, so he appreciated every trip that they made.
His full name was Pepsin. His master was a doctor so that accounted for
the name. With the boys, however, who all loved him, the name stood for
pep or grit.
Pep was an English bull terrier, sleek and clean cut. His white coat
shone like satin and it was as soft as velvet. Well it might have
shone, for the doctor’s man had been washing and brushing the dog for
weeks.
Pep knew that the trip was momentous, but just where they were going,
or what was up he could not have told.
His master was usually calm and collected, but this morning, he was
excited. The dog could feel it plainly. In fact he felt all the changes
of temperament in his beloved master. If he was sad or glad the dog
changed his own feelings to keep pace with his god.
Pep was not as democratic as most terriers. He was quite particular
about his friendships. There was but one person in the whole world whom
he devotedly loved and that was the doctor. You could see this by the
way he looked sideways at his master when he tired of the landscape.
Also by the manner in which he met the advances of strangers on the
train.
Their destination was the New York Bench Show where Pep was to be
entered. This was the momentous errand on which they were bent.
Pep was the usual type of bull terrier, about sixteen inches at the
shoulders and weighing nearly forty pounds.
His ears were cocked and pointed. Their backs had been shaved that very
morning, and the pink blood coursed through them freely.
The doctor was reading a newspaper and occasionally the dog would give
it a poke with his nose, to intimate that the man ought to stop and
talk to him.
The doctor and his wife had no children and they always referred to Pep
as “the boy.”
Arrived at the New York Central, Pep and his master took a taxi for
Madison Square. Once they were fairly within this great arena, Pep
thought it the most exciting place he had ever even dreamed of.
Such a host of dogs he had not thought the world contained. There were
large dogs and small dogs, short-haired dogs and long-haired dogs,
excited dogs and complacent dogs, but most all were excited. A dog
had to have a pretty good opinion of himself to keep his head in such
a place as this. Such a chorus of yelping and barking, growling and
whining greeted them as they walked down the main street that Pep did
not know whether to be joyous or angry. For the life of him he could
not tell whether it was only just play, or the preliminary to a great
fight.
If the men did really loose all these dogs and they should fly at one
another’s throats, he made up his mind that he would get a good hold on
the throat of a bulldog who had growled at him as he passed, and not
let go until the cross fellow had apologized.
Presently they stopped before a man in a small booth, who asked a lot
of tiresome questions about Pep. He wanted his age, weight, breeding
and many more facts, which the master patiently gave him.
Finally Pep was given a number, 223, and they passed along.
They passed by St. Bernard street, Newfoundland street, Collie street
and finally down to the smaller dogs, until they came to the terriers,
where they located permanently in Bull Terrier street. There were about
forty dogs here, tied in a double row, with a broad walk between the
rows. Here the master tied Pep in his own stall and told him to be a
good dog, and went to look for some friends.
For the first five minutes the dogs in Bull Terrier street were very
disrespectful to Pep and called him all the bad names in the dog
dictionary, but seeing how goodnatured he was, they soon ceased their
jollying and asked him where he came from, what his master’s name was,
and what his name was. Presently he was on speaking terms with the dogs
on either side of him.
“It is a very fast class, Pep old boy,” said a sleek terrier across the
street. “If the judge so much as looks at you you will be lucky.”
“My master says I am a sure winner, but I am not saying anything about
it.”
“You’ve told each newcomer for the past two hours,” growled a savage
looking bull terrier next to him. “If I could only slip my collar, I
would fix you so that the judge would kick you out of the ring. You
have got too many airs, my fine fellow.” At this harsh threat the dandy
slunk back in his corner and finally lay down and pretended he was
asleep, but Pep knew he was just shamming.
It seemed an eternity before his master reappeared, but he was not
really gone more than an hour. When he came back he had another doctor
with him, whom Pep knew well. He was the master of Pep’s friend, Larry,
a clever Irish terrier, who had also come to the show.
Presently there was great commotion in Bull Terrier street. Men came
from every direction and unchained their dogs. Some put them on fancy
show leashes, and they were led away to the show ring.
Here there was another inquisitive man, who entered their names and
numbers. Finally the ring was nearly full of bull terriers, all excited
and straining at their leashes. Each master was trying to make his dog
hold up his head and look his prettiest.
Pep’s master had been giving him lessons to stand for inspection on the
leash so he stood like a drum major, with head up and his tail carried
properly. The judge spotted him almost as soon as he came into the ring.
He stopped short in his tracks at the sight of Pep and stood very
still. The other dogs were straining at their leashes, but the judge
did not see them. His eyes were all for Pep. Finally he lifted his
eyes to the doctor’s face and winked at him knowingly. The doctor
looked down quickly, but he gave Pep a confidential shove with his leg.
Pep did not just understand this, but thought it a good omen.
After that, the judge did not even glance at him, but went methodically
about his work. One by one the dogs were led from the ring. Each one
took his cue from the dejected manner of his master, so all went with
tails drooping. Finally, there were only two left besides Pep. Then the
judge stood these two dogs upon a little platform at the center of the
ring and examined them carefully. Occasionally he would stop and glance
across at Pep.
Pep saw that his master was watching the judge intently so he did the
same. When the judge looked his way he wagged his tail, for he felt
sure that this was a man to be cultivated.
Finally the judge got up with a deep sigh. “Take them both away,” he
said shortly. “They are good dogs, but they are not in the class with
this one,” and he came over and stroked Pep’s head. “Here’s his blue
ribbon. Take him up to the free for all. It may not do any good, but
I want to see him lined up against the old champion, Lord Lansdale.
Somehow I can’t keep my eyes off him, but I presume he will look small
enough beside the champion.”
The doctor stooped down and hugged Pep and he was very happy. He felt
sure that the man had liked him and that pleased his master. He loved
to please his master above all else.
So they went back to Bull Terrier street, Pep with his blue ribbon and
his master looking very happy. There they received the congratulations
of the surly dog who had threatened to chew the dandy’s throat if he
could get at him, while the dandy sulked in his corner.
“I liked you the first minute I saw you,” said the surly terrier,
mellowing up and fairly smiling. “You don’t put on airs. I can’t stand
airs in a dog. That is, unless he is a champion.”
“Wait till he goes up to meet the champion,” whimpered the dandy.
“He’ll come back with his tail between his legs, or I am a liar.”
“You are a liar all right,” growled Pep’s new friend, “but he won’t
come back with his tail between his legs. If he’s licked he’ll take it
like a thoroughbred. If the other dog’s better than you are, admit it
and don’t sulk as you are doing.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a call for the winners in each
class to go up to the ring for the finals, so Pep went with his master
and both were much excited.
The judge did not so much as look at him when he entered the ring and
poor Pep thought it was all up. He felt sorry for his master, who, he
at once saw, felt the slight.
“Keep your head up, old chap,” whispered the master, and Pep looked as
haughty as he could, copying the manner of the old champion who stood
at the center of the platform, his eyes half shut, gazing off into
space, just as though the whole show bored him to death and he would be
glad when it was over.
One by one the winners were placed on the platform by the champion but
it needed only a glance at most of them and the judge said, “Take ’em
away.” Then master and dog would slink out of the ring. The last dog
who went on before Pep lasted much longer than his predecessors had.
The judge looked him over for several minutes and even held his head
beside the champion’s before pronouncing his doom.
Then he turned about quickly. “Where’s the doctor’s dog?” he said. “He
is the only dog in the show that can give the old champion anything
like a go. Bring him on.”
Pep mounted to the platform much excited, although he tried hard not to
show it. The champion looked at him sleepily out of the corner of his
eye. Pep thought his manner said, “So here’s another. Well, they will
soon take him away.”
The judge stepped back several feet and looked at them very hard,
without saying a word. Then he scratched his head and said, “Well, I’ll
be darned. I never expected to be up against it like this.”
[Illustration: “The judge examined them carefully.”]
Then he went up and began feeling the two dogs over very carefully. He
passed his hand along their backs, and legs. He let their ears slip
gently through his fingers. He lifted up their paws. Then put them down.
Pep watched him from the corner of one eye. He could see that the judge
was more and more worried.
Then he stood off and looked at them again. He scratched his head and
pulled his mustache, then came back and went all over the handling
process once more.
Finally he held a muzzle in either palm and laid their heads side by
side. His hand trembled and Pep felt that he was much excited.
At last he stood up and heaved a deep sigh. “I am very sorry,” he said,
and stooped down and stroked the old champion’s head.
Poor Pep’s heart stood still. He felt as though the judge had struck
him. He wanted to yelp with pain. He knew it would disappoint his
master so, but the judge’s next words fairly stunned him.
“Take away the old champion,” he said. “He is outclassed. This,” and he
laid his hand caressingly on Pep’s head, “is the better dog. I never
dreamed that I would live to see Lord Lansdale dethroned.”
Then a great shouting went up around the ring.
“Hurrah for Pepsin. Congratulations, doctor. Let me stroke him. Let me
get inside and feel him over. Bring him out, doctor, we want to take
some photos of him for the press.”
Pepsin was so astonished at all this fuss that at first he thought he
had done something bad and was to be punished, but when his master
caught him up in his arms and hugged him joyously his happiness was
complete.
From that time on, as long as they stayed at the show, he was a much
petted and flattered dog.
If he had been a silly, vain dog, it would have turned his head, but he
was a sensible fellow and he took it as a matter of course.
The following day, when Pep and the doctor were having a fine time,
walking about the great hall, along the main street, looking at the
dogs, a boy in uniform with a blue cap came up to his master and gave
him an envelope.
Pep sat on his haunches and watched the doctor very closely while he
looked at the piece of paper. Somehow he did not like these messengers
with their pieces of paper. They always upset things. This one seemed
to be even more disturbing than usual, for the doctor put the telegram
hurriedly into his pocket and they started out of the building not
stopping to speak to any one.
“It’s my call, Pep,” he said as they took a taxi for the Grand
Central. “I’m off for the war, old chap.”