Will Barrie went whistling down the lane of the Locksley farm, took a
short cut over a field of clover aftermath and through a sloping
orchard where the trees were laden with apples, and emerged into the
farmhouse yard where Curtis Locksley was sitting on a pile of logs,
idly whittling at a stick.
"You look as if you had a corner in time, Curt," said Will. "I call
that luck, for I want you to go chestnutting up to Grier's Hill with
me. I met old Tom Grier on the road yesterday, and he told me I might
go any day. Nice old man, Tom Grier."
"Good!" said Curtis heartily, as he sprang up. "If I haven't exactly a
corner in time, I have a day off, at least. Uncle doesn't need me
today. Wait till I whistle for Don. May as well take him with us."
Curtis whistled accordingly, but Don, his handsome Newfoundland dog,
did not appear. After calling and whistling about the yard and barns
for several minutes, Curtis turned away disappointedly.
"He can't be anywhere around. It is very strange. Don never used to go
away from home without me, but lately he has been missing several
times, and twice last week he wasn't here in the morning and didn't
turn up until midday."
"I'd keep him shut up until I broke him of the habit of playing
truant, if I were you," said Will, as they turned into the lane.
"Don hates to be shut up, howls all the time so mournfully that I
can't stand it," responded Curtis.
"Well," said Will, hesitatingly, "maybe that would be better after all
than letting him stray away with other dogs who may teach him bad
habits. I saw Don myself one evening last week ambling down the
Harbour road with that big brown dog of Sam Ventnor's. Ventnor's dog
is beginning to have a bad reputation, you know. There have been
several sheep worried lately, and--"
"Don wouldn't touch a sheep!" interrupted Curtis hotly.
"I daresay not, not yet. But Ventnor's dog is under suspicion, and if
Don runs with him he'll learn the trick sure as preaching. The farmers
are growling a good bit already, and if they hear of Don and Ventnor's
dog going about in company, they'll put it on them both. Better keep
Don shut up awhile, let him howl as he likes."
"I believe I will," said Curtis soberly. "I don't want Don to fall
under suspicion of sheep-worrying, though I'm sure he would never do
it. Anyhow, I don't want him to run with Ventnor's dog. I'll chain him
up in the barn when I go home. I couldn't stand it if anything
happened to Don. After you, he's the only chum I've got--and he's a
good one."
Will agreed. He was almost as fond of Don as Curtis was. But he did
not feel so sure that the dog would not worry a sheep. Will knew that
Don was suspected already, but he did not like to tell Curtis so. And
of course there was as yet no positive proof--merely mutterings and
suggestions among the Bayside farmers who had lost sheep and were
anxious to locate their slayer. There were many other dogs in Bayside
and the surrounding districts who were just as likely to be the guilty
animals, and Will hoped that if Don were shut up for a time, suspicion
might be averted from him, especially if the worryings still went on.
He had felt a little doubtful about hinting the truth to Curtis, who
was a high-spirited lad and always resented any slur cast upon Don
much more bitterly than if it were meant for himself. But he knew that
Curtis would take it better from him than from the other Bayside boys,
one or the other of whom would be sure soon to cast something up to
Curtis about his dog. Will felt decidedly relieved to find that Curtis
took his advice in the spirit in which it was offered.
"Who have lost sheep lately?" queried Curtis, as they left the main
road and struck into a wood path through the ranks of beeches on Tom
Grier's land.
"Nearly everybody on the Hollow farms," answered Will. "Until last
week nobody on the Hill farms had lost any. But Tuesday night old Paul
Stockton had six fine sheep killed in his upland pasture behind the
fir woods. He is furious about it, I believe, and vows he'll find out
what dog did it and have him shot."
Curtis looked grave. Paul Stockton's farm was only about a quarter of
a mile from the Locksley homestead, and he knew that Paul had an old
family grudge against his Uncle Arnold, which included his nephew and
all belonging to him. Moreover, Curtis remembered with a sinking heart
that Wednesday morning had been one of the mornings upon which Don was
missing.
"But I don't care!" he thought miserably. "I know Don didn't kill
those sheep."
"Talking of old Paul," said Will, who thought it advisable to turn the
conversation, "reminds me that they are getting anxious at the Harbour
about George Finley's schooner, the _Amy Reade_. She was due three
days ago and there's no sign of her yet. And there have been two bad
gales since she left Morro. Oscar Stockton is on board of her, you
know, and his father is worried about him. There are five other men on
her, all from the Harbour, and their folks down there are pretty wild
about the schooner."
Nothing more was said about the sheep, and soon, in the pleasures of
chestnutting, Curtis forgot his anxiety. Old Tom Grier had called to
the boys as they passed his house to come back and have dinner there
when the time came. This they did, and it was late in the afternoon
when Curtis, with his bag of chestnuts over his shoulder, walked into
the Locksley yard.
His uncle was standing before the open barn doors, talking to an
elderly, grizzled man with a thin, shrewd face.
Curtis's heart sank as he recognized old Paul Stockton. What could
have brought him over?
"Curtis," called his uncle, "come here."
As Curtis crossed the yard, Don came bounding down the slope from the
house to meet him. He put his hand on the dog's big head and the two
of them walked slowly to the barn. Old Paul included them both in a
vindictive scowl.
"Curtis," said his uncle gravely, "here's a bad business. Mr.
Stockton tells me that your dog has been worrying his sheep."
"It's a--" began Curtis angrily. Then he checked himself and went on
more calmly.
"That can't be so, Mr. Stockton. My dog would not harm anything."
"He killed or helped to kill six of the finest sheep in my flock!"
retorted old Paul.
"What proof have you of it?" demanded Curtis, trying to keep his anger
within bounds.
"Abner Peck saw your dog and Ventnor's running together through my
sheep pasture at sundown on Tuesday evening," answered old Paul.
"Wednesday morning I found this in the corner of the pasture where the
sheep were worried. Your uncle admits that it was tied around your
dog's neck on Tuesday."
And old Paul held out triumphantly a faded red ribbon. Curtis
recognized it at a glance. It was the ribbon his little cousin, Lena,
had tied around Don's neck Tuesday afternoon. He remembered how they
had laughed at the effect of that frivolous red collar and bow on
Don's massive body.
"I'm sure Don isn't guilty!" he cried passionately.
Mr. Locksley shook his head.
"I'm afraid he is, Curtis. The case looks very black against him, and
sheep-stealing is a serious offence."
"The dog must be shot," said old Paul decidedly. "I leave the matter
in your hands, Mr. Locksley. I've got enough proof to convict the dog
and, if you don't have him killed, I'll make you pay for the sheep he
worried."
As old Paul strode away, Curtis looked beseechingly at his uncle.
"Don mustn't be shot, Uncle!" he said desperately. "I'll chain him up
all the time."
"And have him howling night and day as if we had a brood of banshees
about the place?" said Mr. Locksley sarcastically. He was a stern man
with little sentiment in his nature and no understanding whatever of
Curtis's affection for Don. The Bayside people said that Arnold
Locksley had always been very severe with his nephew. "No, no, Curtis,
you must look at the matter sensibly. The dog is a nuisance and must
be shot. You can't keep him shut up forever, and, if he has once
learned the trick of sheep-worrying, he will never forget it. You can
get another dog if you must have one. I'll get Charles Pippey to come
and shoot Don tomorrow. No sulking now, Curtis. You are too big a boy
for that. Tie the dog up for the night and then go and put the calves
in. There is a storm coming. The wind is blowing hard from the
northeast now."
His uncle walked away, leaving the boy white and miserable in the
yard. He looked at Don, who sat on his haunches and returned his gaze
frankly and open-heartedly. He did not look like a guilty dog. Could
it be possible that he had really worried those sheep?
"I'll never believe it of you, old fellow!" Curtis said, as he led the
dog into a corner of the carriage house and tied him up there. Then he
flung himself down on a pile of sacks beside him and buried his face
in Don's curly black fur. The boy felt sullen, rebellious and
wretched.
He lay there until dark, thinking his own bitter thoughts and
listening to the rapidly increasing gale. Finally he got up and flung
off after the calves, with Don's melancholy howls at finding himself
deserted ringing in his ears.
He'll be quiet enough tomorrow night, thought Curtis wretchedly, as he
went upstairs to bed after housing the calves. For a long while he lay
awake, but finally dropped into a heavy slumber which lasted until
his aunt called him for milking.
The wind was blowing more furiously than ever. Up over the fields came
the roar and crash of the surges on the outside shore. The Harbour to
the east of Bayside was rough and stormy.
They were just rising from breakfast when Will Barrie burst into the
kitchen.
"The _Amy Reade_ is ashore on Gleeson's rocks!" he shouted. "Struck
there at daylight this morning! Come on, Curt!"
Curtis sprang for his cap, his uncle following suit more deliberately.
As the two boys ran through the yard, Curtis heard Don howling.
"I'll take him with me!" he muttered. "Wait a minute, Will."
The Harbour road was thronged with people hurrying to the outside
shore, for the news of the _Amy Readers_ disaster had spread rapidly.
As the boys, with the rejoicing Don at their heels, pelted along, Sam
Morrow overtook them in a cart and told them to jump in. Sam had
already been down to the shore and had gone back to tell his father.
As they jolted along, he screamed information at them over the shriek
of the gale.
"Bad business, this! She's pounding on a reef 'bout a quarter of a
mile out. They're sure she's going to break up--old tub, you
know--leaky--rotten. The sea's tremenjus high, and the surfs going
dean over her. There can't be no boat launched for hours yet--they'll
all be drowned. Old Paul's down there like a madman--offering
everything he's got to the man who'll save Oscar, but it can't be
done."
By this time they had reached the shore, which was black with excited
people. Out on Gleeson's Reef the ill-fated little schooner was
visible amid the flying spray. A grizzled old Harbour fisherman, to
whom Sam shouted a question, shook his head.
"No, can't do nothin'! No boat c'd live in that surf f'r a moment. The
schooner'll go to pieces mighty soon, I'm feared. It's turrible!
turrible! to stan' by an' watch yer neighbours drown like this!"
Curtis and Will elbowed their way down to the water's edge. The
relatives of the crew were all there in various stages of despair, but
old Paul Stockton seemed like a man demented. He ran up and down the
beach, crying and praying. His only son was on the _Amy Reade_, and he
could do nothing to save him!
"What are they doing?" asked Will of Martin Clark.
"Trying to get a line ashore by throwing out a small rope with a stick
tied to it," answered Martin. "It's young Stockton that's trying now.
But it isn't any use. The cross-currents on that reef are too
powerful."
"Why, Don will bring that line ashore!" exclaimed Curtis. "Here, Don!
Don, I say!"
The dog bounded back along the shore with a quick bark. Curtis grasped
him by the collar and pointed to the stick which young Stockton had
just hurled again into the water. Don, with another bark of
comprehension, dashed into the sea. The onlookers, grasping the
situation, gave a cheer and then relapsed into silence. Only the
shriek of the gale and the crash of the waves could be heard as they
watched the magnificent dog swimming out through the breakers, his big
black head now rising on the crest of a wave and now disappearing in
the hollow behind it. When Don finally reached the tossing stick,
grasped it in his mouth and turned shoreward, another great shout went
up from the beach. A woman behind Curtis, whose husband was on the
schooner, dropped on her knees on the pebbles, sobbing and thanking
God. Curtis himself felt the stinging tears start to his eyes.
When Don reached the shore he dropped the stick at Curtis's feet and
gave himself a tremendous shake. Curtis caught at the stick, while a
dozen men and women threw themselves bodily on Don, hugging him and
kissing his wet fur like distracted creatures. Old Paul Stockton was
among them. Over his shoulder Don's big black head looked up, his eyes
asking as plainly as speech what all this fuss was about.
Meanwhile some of the men had already pulled a big hawser ashore and
made it fast. In half an hour the crew of the _Amy Reade_ were safe on
shore, chilled and dripping. Before they were hurried away to warmth
and shelter, old Paul Stockton caught Curtis's hand. The tears were
running freely down his hard, old face.
"Tell your uncle he is not to lay a finger on that dog!" he said. "He
never killed a sheep of mine--he couldn't! And if he did I don't care!
He's welcome to kill them all, if nothing but mutton'll serve his
turn."
Curtis walked home with a glad heart. Mr. Locksley heard old Paul's
message with a smile. He, too, had been touched by Don's splendid
feat.
"Well, Curtis, I'm very glad that it has turned old Paul in his
favour. But we must shut Don up for a week or so, no matter how hard
he takes it. You can see that for yourself. After all, he might have
worried the sheep. And, anyway, he must be broken of his intimacy with
Ventnor's dog."
Curtis acknowledged the justice of this and poor Don was tied up
again. His captivity was not long, however, for Ventnor's dog was soon
shot. When Don was released, Curtis had an anxious time for a week or
two. But no more sheep were worried, and Don's innocence was
triumphantly established. As for old Paul Stockton, it seemed as if
he could not do enough for Curtis and Don. His ancient grudge against
the Locksleys was completely forgotten, and from that date he was a
firm friend of Curtis. In regard to Don, old Paul would say:
"Why, there never was such a dog before, sir, never! He just talks
with his eyes, that dog does. And if you'd just 'a' seen him swimming
out to that schooner! Bones? Yes, sir! Every time that dog comes here
he's to get the best bones we've got for him--and more'n bones, too.
That dog's a hero, sir, that's what he is!"