When we were living in a very remote part of Northumberland, in an old
house that had once been a monastery, we had two large dogs named Oscar
and Bruno.
Oscar, who was a Newfoundland with a bit of the retriever in him, had
been especially trained to take the water and to secure the game when
shot among the deep pools.
Bruno, on the other hand, was a huge mastiff, who was kept to guard the
house; gentle and docile to those whom he knew, but woe betide the
suspicious-looking stranger who approached the house--his growl was
enough to frighten the stoutest-hearted beggar in the world.
My father thought Bruno was getting a little lazy, so proposed to take
him down to the river with Oscar. I was to accompany them, and see poor
old Bruno have a bath.
The river was not very broad, narrow enough to be spanned by an old
wooden bridge, but it was very deep in the centre.
Bruno floundered about, and at last got into the deep centre current,
and, to my horror, I saw he was losing strength and sinking. I shouted
to father that Bruno was drowning. He called to Oscar, "Save your
friend, Oscar!" And the faithful creature seemed to grasp the situation,
for he swam out to Bruno, and taking hold of his strong leather collar
between his teeth, he lifted his head and shoulders out of the water. I
eagerly watched them, for Bruno was very heavy, and it looked as if poor
Oscar would not have strength to land his friend.
Father encouraged Oscar, for I saw the fear in his face too; and making
one supreme effort, struggling and panting, Oscar brought Bruno into
shallow water. In a few minutes Oscar was all right, but poor old Bruno
was long before he came to himself. His devotion to Oscar after that was
beautiful to see, and they were firmer and truer friends ever
afterwards.
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