It may be said that Zip had become the hero of the Boy Scout camp on
Gosling Lake. He belonged to the finest breed of bloodhounds in the
world and had given an illustration of that gift of his species which
approaches the miraculous. The stories told by his master of his other
exploits, and of what had been done by his kind on Long Island and
elsewhere, were absorbingly interesting. As young Burton remarked, his
study of this canine species had given him more knowledge than could
have been the case otherwise, and he naturally did most of the talking
on that cool August night in front of the bungalow. The bloodhound is
one of the most dignified of dogs, and resents anything in the nature of
familiarity by strangers. Alvin, Chester, Mike and several others tried
to make friends with Zip, but he showed them plainly that he preferred
to be left to himself.
“Ef it was meself that was as partic’lar as him to selict me
associates,” said Mike, “I should faal mighty lonely, as Jim O’Toole
remarked after he had been lost for six weeks in the woods. I’ll
remimber yer coolness, Zip,” he added, shaking his finger at the dog
nestling at the feet of Burton, “and to-morrer ye’ll faal so ashamed,
after ye try to match wits wid me, that ye’ll resign as a bloodhound and
become a poodle dog for the rist of yer days.”
“Don’t boast too soon,” said the guest; “I’ll put my stake on Zip every
time.”
“And so will I,” added Alvin; “if Mike was half as smart as he thinks he
is, we should all be fools compared with him.”
“_Some_ folks don’t naad the comparisin to show they’re lacking in the
first ilimints of sense,” retorted the Irish youth with fine sarcasm.
It was quite late when the boys retired for the night. No one would have
objected to the presence of Zip in the bungalow, but his master
preferred that he should spend the night outdoors, and he was waiting
there the next morning when Burton, the first to arise, came out to have
a romp with him before breakfast.
It was about eight o’clock that the whole party of Boy Scouts including
their guest gathered on the front porch, eagerly interested in the test
that was to be made of the skill of Zip the bloodhound in following a
scent. Every one was on the _qui vive_, for the novelty of the
proceeding appealed to them.
The arrangements, simple of themselves, had been made while the party
was at breakfast. Three trials were to take place, involving that number
of Boy Scouts. Each was to plunge into the woods and use every device
possible to hide his trail from the dog, which was to take up his task
an hour after the fugitive, as he may be called, left the bungalow.
The first runner was the diminutive Isaac Rothstein, the second, the
tall, long-limbed Hoke Butler, and the third Mike Murphy.
“There is only one condition,” said young Burton, when everything was
ready; “you must not make any use of the lake. Zip can track you only to
the edge.”
“The lake is the only water shut out?” remarked Hoke Butler inquiringly.
The guest hesitated a moment, suspecting some intended trick by the
questioner.
“That is all.”
“How about the Sheepscot River?” asked Mike.
“If an hour’s start will enable you to reach that stream ahead of Zip,
you win.”
Scout Master Hall turned to Isaac, who was standing in the middle of the
group on the porch. The bright-eyed youth nodded.
Burton spoke to the hound which, knowing what was expected of him, came
forward and sniffed around the Boy Scout’s feet and ankles. He did this
for only two or three seconds, when he backed off and took his place
beside his master.
“That means he is ready if you are.”
“I am to have an hour’s start?”
“More if you wish it.”
“That’s enough, and you are sure he will not attack me?”
“Have no fear of that, but I suggest that you do not tempt him.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked young Rothstein.
“Don’t tackle _him_ first; and when he comes up with you, as he is sure
to do, stop running. The Belgian dogs have a trick of dodging between
the legs of a fugitive and tripping him, but the bloodhound prefers to
drag him down.”
“In other words,” said Mike, “whin the dog gits ye down, and has his
paws on yer breast, and is hunting out the best place to begin his
feast, h’ist the flag of truce.”
Isaac, accompanied by Scout Master Hall and several of the boys, passed
into the bungalow, closing the door behind them, and went out of the
rear door which was also shut. The dog remained on the front porch with
his master and the other scouts, each party out of sight of the other. A
few minutes later, Isaac’s friends rejoined their comrades, Burton and
several of the Scouts glancing at their watches to note the time. Zip
lay at his owner’s feet, with his nose between his paws, as if intending
to pass the interval in sleep.
Before starting, Isaac was asked to explain his plan. He replied that it
was merely to do everything he could to puzzle his pursuer, and he was
confident of succeeding. It was useless to make any effort at the start,
and he walked away at his ordinary pace, quickly disappearing among the
trees.
The moment, however, he was out of sight he began the precautions he had
decided upon before starting. He turned at right angles, walked rapidly
for a hundred yards, then changed again to the same extent. Since the
shift each time was to the right, this made an exact reversal of the
course upon which he set out, and being kept for a little while took him
back to the bungalow, a rod or two from his starting point. No one saw
him, since every one was at the front. Thus he made a second get away,
which delayed him for a few minutes.
Isaac chuckled, for he was sure he had played a cute trick upon the dog,
which he believed would be puzzled thereby, and yet you and I can
readily see that there was “nothing in it” at all.
Again the youth dived in among the trees, or broke into a rapid run,
going straightaway, but taking as long steps as he could. Then he
zig-zagged, first to the right and left, describing irregular circles
which assuredly would have led him astray had he not caught glimpses of
the lake now and then, and thus knew the course he was following, which
in the main was toward the cabin of Uncle Elk.
He kept note of the time, and just before the hour expired made a long
sweeping curve to the right, which brought him back to the opposite end
of the bungalow from his starting point.
“Hurrah!” he called as he bounded up the steps among his friends;
“where’s Zip?”
“On your trail,” replied his owner.
“Don’t be too sure of that; I’ve given him the task of his life.”
“Undoubtedly the easiest one; now that you have returned,” said Burton,
“you may as well tell us everything you did.”
Isaac described his course from the first,—how he had actually started
twice, often shifting and finally making a big curve, still marked by
abrupt changes that were sure to baffle the keenest nosed bloodhound
that ever tracked a fugitive into the depths of the Everglades.
“You couldn’t have given Zip an easier task,” said Burton; “when he left
here a short time ago he circled about the clubhouse, and in three
minutes at the most took your scent.”
“But didn’t the two trails puzzle him?” asked the astonished Isaac.
“There was a difference of a few minutes in their making and he took the
freshest.”
This sounded so incredible that the guest qualified his assertion.
“Even if he accepted the older scent, it led him straight to the second.
All your circlings and doublings availed you nothing; you never
perplexed him for more than an instant.”
“How can you know that?”
“There’s your answer.”
Burton nodded toward the steps up which Isaac Rothstein had come some
time before. There was Zip, who without baying or making any kind of
outcry, galloped over the porch and directly to where the astounded lad
was sitting. Stepping a pace or two away, he looked up at the youth and
then walked over to his master and sat down beside his chair.
“You can translate his remarks,” said the latter. “Words could not be
plainer: ‘There’s the young man who thought he could fool me, but never
was he more mistaken.’”
Isaac joined in the clapping of hands. Zip preserved his dignity and
paid no heed to strangers. All he cared for was the good opinion of his
master and he knew he had that.
“Next!” called Burton, and the tall, stoop-shouldered Hoke Butler rose
to his feet.
“I don’t want any help,” he remarked with a wink toward Isaac Rothstein,
as Zip sniffed about his feet; “stay right where you are. Mr. Burton, a
half hour start will be enough for me.”
“As you please, but you may have two hours if you wish.”
“And we’ll save our bouquets till Zip throws up the sponge,” said Mike,
“or rather until I tries me hand with the intilligint canine.”
Instead of leaving the bungalow from the rear, Hoke walked deliberately
down the eastern steps, and sauntered off where he was in plain sight of
all until he entered the wood which approached to within a few rods of
the lake. He had given no one a hint of the scheme he had in mind, but
the feeling was general that whatever its nature it was original, and
more than one-half suspected he might outwit the remarkable dog. In this
list we must not include George Burton.
Now Hoke had learned that it was useless to try to throw Zip off the
scent by any such artifices as young Rothstein had used. As the guest
declared, the tracker had not bothered the dog to the slightest extent.
It therefore would be folly for the second fugitive to repeat the
experiment. He had no thought of doing so.
Mention has been made in the preceding pages of a brook which ran near
the home of Uncle Elk. After a devious course this emptied into Gosling
Lake at a point about halfway between the cabin and the bungalow. Hoke
rested his hopes upon this little stream.
“Burton barred the lake,” chuckled the youth, “but he didn’t say
anything of this stream, though I was awfully afraid he would. I guess
he doesn’t know about it,—yes, he does, too, for he had to cross it on
his way to the bungalow, but he forgot it. He can’t kick when he finds I
have made his dog sing small.”
Allured by the single purpose, Hoke pushed straight on, turning neither
to the right nor left. Recalling that he had shortened the time Zip was
to wait, he broke into a lope. His build made him the fleetest runner in
camp, and it did not take him long to reach the stream. He had crossed
it so many times that the lower portion was familiar, and he turned as
if to follow it to its source in the spring near Uncle Elk’s cabin.
He found it of varying width. It was so narrow where a regular path had
been made by the passing back and forth of the hermit and his friends,
that nothing in the nature of a bridge was used. A long step or a
moderate jump served.
Nowhere did the depth seem to be more than a few inches, except where a
pool or eddy occasionally appeared; but as Hoke Butler picked his way
along the bank, he was pleased to note here and there a considerable
expansion.
“That’s good!” he said to himself; “it will make it all the harder for
that dog.”
He now put his scheme into operation. Without removing his shoes, he
stepped into the brook, sinking halfway to his knees, and began walking
up the bed of the stream. The water was as cold as ice, and he gasped at
first, but became quickly accustomed to it. The bottom was so irregular
that he progressed slowly, and more than once narrowly escaped falling.
Here and there boulders protruded from the shore and he steadied himself
by resting a hand upon them as he labored past. Those that rose from the
bed of the stream itself and around which the current foamed, afforded
convenient stepping stones and were turned to such use.
“Of course that wouldn’t do on land,” he reflected, “for the dog would
catch the scent, but he can’t know I’m in the water, and will be hunting
elsewhere for my trail. He’ll be the most beautifully fooled dog in
Maine.”