From the night of the robbery, Lad's high position at the Place was
assured.
Even in the months of ganglingly leggy awkwardness which generally
separate furry puppyhood from dignified collie maturity, he gave sure
promise of his quality. He was such a dog as is found perhaps once in a
generation; the super-collie that neither knows nor needs such things
as whip and chain; and that learns the Law with bewildering swiftness.
A dog with a brain and a mighty heart, as well as an endless fund of
loveableness and of gay courage.
Month by month, the youngster developed into a massive giant; his
orange-mahogany coat a miracle of thickness and length, his deep chest
promising power as well as wolflike grace. His mind and his oddly human
traits developed as fast as did his body.
After the first month or so he received privileges never to be accorded
to any other of the Place's dogs in Lad's lifetime. He slept at night
under the music-room piano, in the "cave" that was his delight. At
mealtimes he was even admitted into the sacred dining-room, where he
lay on the floor at the Master's left hand. He had the run of the
house, as fully as any human.
It was when Lad was eighteen months old that the mad-dog scare swept
Hampton village; and reached its crawly tentacles out across the lake
to the mile-distant Place.
Down the village street, one day, trotted an enormous black mongrel;
full in the center of the roadway. The mongrel's heavy head was low,
and lolled from side to side with each lurching stride of the big body.
The eyes were bloodshot. From the mouth and the hanging dewlaps, flecks
of foam dropped now and then to the ground.
The big mongrel was sick of mind and of body. He craved only to get out
of that abode of men and to find solitude in the forests and hills
beyond the village.
For this is the considerate way of dogs; and of cats as well. When dire
sickness smites them, they do not hang about, craving sympathy and
calling for endless attention. All they want is to get out of the
way,--well out of the way, into the woods and swamps and mountains;
where they may wrestle with their life-or-death problem in their own
primitive manner; and where, if need be, they may die alone and
peacefully, without troubling anyone else.
Especially is this true with dogs. If their malady is likely to affect
the brain and to turn them savage, they make every possible attempt to
escape from home and to be as far away from their masters as may be,
before the crisis shall goad them into attacking those they love.
And, when some such suffering beast is seen, on his way to solitude, we
humans prove our humanity by raising the idiotic bellow of "Mad dog!"
and by chasing and torturing the victim. All this, despite proof that
not one sick dog in a thousand, thus assailed, has any disease which is
even remotely akin to rabies.
Next to vivisection, no crime against helpless animals is so needlessly
and foolishly cruel as the average mad-dog chase.
Which is a digression; but which may or may not enable you to keep your
head, next time a mad-dog scare sweeps your own neighborhood.
Down the middle of the dusty street trotted the sick mongrel. Five
minutes earlier, he had escaped from the damp cellar in which his owner
had imprisoned him when first he fell ill. And now, his one purpose was
to leave the village behind him and to gain the leafy refuge of the
foothills beyond.
Out from a door-yard, flashed a bumptious little fox terrier. Into the
roadway he bounded; intent on challenging the bigger animal.
He barked ferociously; then danced in front of the invalid; yapping and
snapping up at the hanging head. The big mongrel, in agony, snarled and
made a lunge at his irritatingly dancing tormentor. His teeth dug
grazingly into the terrier's withers; and, with an impatient toss, he
flung the little beast to one side. Then he continued his interrupted
flight; sick wrath beginning to encompass his reeling brain, at the
annoyance he had encountered.
The yell of the slightly hurt terrier brought people to their doors.
The sound disturbed a half-breed spaniel from his doze in the dust, and
sent him out to continue the harrying his injured terrier chum had
begun.
The spaniel flew at the black dog; nipping at the plodding forepaws.
The mongrel raged; as might some painfully sick human who is pestered
when he asks only to be let alone. His dull apathy gave place to sullen
anger. He bit growlingly at the spaniel, throwing himself to one side
in pursuit of the elusive foe. And he snapped with equal rage at an
Irish terrier that had come out to add to the turmoil.
By this time, a score of people were dancing up and down inside their
door-yard fences, squalling "Mad dog!" and flinging at the black brute
any missile they could lay hand to.
A broken flower-pot cut the invalid's nose. A stone rebounded from his
ribs. The raucous human yells completed the work the first dog had
started. From a mere sufferer, the black mongrel had changed into a
peril.
The Mistress had motored over to the Hampton post-office, that
afternoon, to mail some letters. Lad, as usual, had gone with her. She
had left him in the car, while she went into the post-office.
Lad lay there, in snug contentment, on the car's front seat; awaiting
the return of his deity and keeping a watchful eye on anyone who
chanced to loiter near the machine. Presently, he sat up. Leaning out,
from one side of the seat, he stared down the hot roadway, in a
direction whence a babel of highly exciting sounds began to issue.
Apparently, beyond that kick-up of dust, a furlong below, all sorts of
interesting things were happening. Lad's soft eyes took on a glint of
eager curiosity; and he sniffed the still air for further clues as to
the nature of the fun. A number of humans,--to judge by the
racket,--were shouting and screaming; and the well-understood word,
"dog," formed a large part of their clamor. Also, there were real dogs
mixed up in the fracas; and more than one of them had blood on him. So
much the collie's uncanny senses of smell and of hearing told him.
Lad whimpered, far down in his throat. He had been left here to guard
this car. It was his duty to stay where he was, until the Mistress
should return. Yet, right behind him, there, a series of mighty
entertaining things were happening,--things that he longed to
investigate and to mix into. It was hard to do one's solemn duty as
watchdog, when so much of wild interest was astir! Not once did it
occur to Laddie to desert his post. But he could not forbear that low
whimper and a glance of appeal toward the post-office.
And now, out of the smear of flying dust, loomed a lurching black
shape;--gigantic, terrible. It was coming straight toward the car;
still almost in mid-road. Behind, less distinct, appeared running men.
And a shot was fired. Somebody had run indoors for a pistol, before
joining the chase. The same somebody, in the van of the pursuers, had
opened fire; and was in danger of doing far more damage to life than
could a dozen allegedly mad dogs.
Just then, out from the post-office, came the Mistress. Crossing the
narrow sidewalk, she neared the car. Lad stood up, wagging his plumed
tail in welcome; his tiny white forepaws dancing a jig of eagerness on
the leather seat-cushion.
On reeled the black mongrel; crazed by noise and pain. His bleared eyes
caught a flash of the Mistress's white dress, on the walk, fifteen feet
in front of him and a yard or more to one side.
In a frame of mind when every newcomer was a probable tormenter, the
mongrel resolved to meet this white-clad foe, head-on. He swerved, with
a stagger, from his bee-line of travel; growled hideously, and sprang
full at her.
The Mistress paused, for an instant, in the middle of the sidewalk, to
find out the reason for the sudden din that had assailed her ears as
she emerged from the post-office. In that brief moment, she caught the
multiple-bellowed phrase of "Mad dog!" and saw the black brute charging
down upon her.
There was no time to dart back into the shelter of the building or to
gain the lesser safety of the car. For the charging mongrel was not
five feet away.
The Mistress stood stock-still; holding her hands at a level with her
throat. She did not cry out; nor faint. That was not the Mistress's
way. Like Lad, she was thoroughbred in soul as well as in body. And
neither she nor her dog belonged to the breed of screamers. Through her
mind, in that briefest fraction of a second whizzed the consoling
thought:
"He's not mad, whatever else he is. A mad dog never swerves from his
path."
But if the Mistress remained moveless, Lad did not. Seeing her peril
even more swiftly than did she, he made one lightning dive from his
perch on the car seat.
He did not leap at random. Lad's brain always worked more quickly than
did his lithe body; flyingly rapid as were that body's motions. As he
gathered himself for the spring, his campaign was mapped out.
Down upon the charging beast swooped a furry whirlwind of burnished
mahogany-and-snow. Down it swooped with the whirring speed and unerring
aim of an eagle. Sixty-odd pounds of sinewy weight smote the lunging
mongrel, obliquely, on the left shoulder; knocking the great brute's
legs from under him and throwing him completely off his balance. Into
the dust crashed the two dogs; Lad on top. Before they struck ground,
the collie's teeth had found their goal ire the side of the larger
dog's throat; and every whalebone muscle in Lad's body was braced to
hold his enemy down.
It was a clever hold. For the fall had thrown the mongrel on his side.
And so long as Lad should be able to keep the great foaming head in
that sideways posture, the other dog could not get his feet under him
again. With his legs in their present position, he had no power to get
up; but lay thrashing and snapping and snarling; and trying with all
his cramped might to free himself from the muscular grip that held him
prostrate.
It was all over in something like two seconds. Up stormed the crowd;
the pistol-wielder at its head. Three shots were fired at point-blank
range. By some miracle none of them harmed Lad; although one bullet
scratched his foreleg on its way to the black giant's brain.
As soon as she could, the Mistress got herself and the loudly-praised
Lad into the car and set off for home. Now that the peril was over, she
felt dizzy and ill. She had seen what it is not well to see. And the
memory of it haunted her for many a night thereafter.
As for Lad, he was still atingle with excitement. The noisy praise of
those babbling humans had bothered him; and he had been glad to escape
it. Lad hated to be mauled or talked to by strangers. But the
Mistress's tremulous squeeze and her shuddering whisper of "Oh, Laddie!
LADDIE!" had shown she was proud of him. And this flattered and
delighted Lad, past all measure.
He had acted on impulse. But, from the Mistress's manner, he saw he had
made a wonderful hit with her by what he had done. And his tail thumped
ecstatically against the seat as he cuddled very close to her side.
At home, there was more praise and petting;--this time from both the
Mistress and the Master. And the Master bathed and patched the
insignificant bullet-scratch on the collie's foreleg. Altogether, it
was a gala afternoon for the young dog. And he loved it.
But, next morning, there was quite another phase of life awaiting him.
Like most Great Moments, this exploit of Lad's was not on the free
list. And Trouble set in;--grim and sinister trouble.
Breakfast was over. The Mistress and the Master were taking their
wonted morning stroll through the grounds. Lad cantered along, ahead of
them. The light bullet-scratch on his foreleg did not lame or annoy
him. He inspected everything of canine interest; sniffing expert
inquiry at holes which might prove to be rabbit warrens; glaring in
truculent threat up some tree which might or might not harbor an
impudent squirrel; affecting to see objects of mysterious import in
bush clumps; crouching in dramatic threat at a fat stag-beetle which
scuttled across his path.
There are an immense number of worth-while details for a very young
collie, in even the most casual morning walk; especially if his
Mistress and his Master chance to be under his escort. And Laddie
neglected none of these things. If a troop of bears or a band of
Indians or a man-eating elephant were lurking anywhere in the shrubbery
or behind tree-trunks, Lad was not going to fail in discovering and
routing out such possible dangers to the peace of mind of his two
adored deities.
Scent and sight presently were attracted by a feeble fluttering under a
low-limbed catalpa tree in whose branches a pair of hysterical robins
were screeching. Lad paused, his tulip ears at attention, his plumed
tail swaying. Then he pushed his long muzzle through a clump of grass
and emerged carrying a flapping and piping morsel between his mighty
jaws. The birds, on the limb above, redoubled their frenzied chirping;
and made little futile dashes at the collie's head.
Unheeding, Lad walked back to the Mistress and laid gently at her feet
the baby robin he had found. His keen teeth had not so much as ruffled
its pinfeather plumage. Having done his share toward settling the
bird's dilemma, Laddie stood back and watched in grave interest while
the Mistress lifted the fluttering infant and put it back in the nest
whence it had fallen.
"That makes the fifth baby bird Laddie has brought to me in a month,"
she commented, as she and the Master turned back toward the house. "To
say nothing of two field mice and a broken-winged bat. He seems to
think I'll know what to do for them."
"I only hope he won't happen upon a newborn rattlesnake or copperhead
and bring it to you for refuge," answered the Master. "I never saw
another dog, except a trained pointer or setter, that could handle
birds so tenderly. He--"
The bumping of a badly handled rowboat, against the dock, at the foot
of the lawn, a hundred yards below, checked his rambling words. Lad, at
sudden attention, by his master's side, watched the boat's occupant
clamber clumsily out of his scow; then stamp along the dock and up the
lawn toward the house. The arrival was a long and lean and lank and
lantern-jawed man with a set of the most fiery red whiskers ever seen
outside a musical comedy. The Master had seen him several times, in the
village; and recognized him as Homer Wefers, the newly-appointed
Township Head Constable. The Mistress recognized him, too, as the
vehement official whose volley of pistol-bullets had ended the
sufferings of the black mongrel. She shivered, in reminiscence, as she
looked at him. The memory he evoked was not pleasant.
"Morning!" Wefers observed, curtly, as the Master, with Lad beside him,
stepped forward to greet the scarlet-bearded guest. "I tried to get
over here, last night. But I guess it's soon enough, today. Has he
showed any signs, yet?" He nodded inquiringly at the impassive Lad, as
he spoke.
"'Soon enough' for what?" queried the puzzled Master.
"And what sort of 'signs' are you talking about?"
"Soon enough to shoot that big brown collie of yours," explained
Wefers, with businesslike briskness. "And I'm asking if he's showed any
signs of hydrophoby. Has he?"
"Are you speaking of Laddie?" asked the Mistress, in dismay; as the
slower-witted Master, stared and gulped. "Why should he show any signs
of hydrophobia? He--"
"If he hasn't, he will," rapped out the visitor. "Or he would, if he
wasn't put out of the way. That's what I'm here for. But I kind of
hoped maybe you folks might have done it, yourselves. Can't be too
careful, you know. 'Specially--"
"What in blue blazes are you blithering about?" roared the Master,
finding his voice and marshaling his startled wits. "Do you mean--"
"I mean," said Wefers, rebuking with a cold glare the Master's
disrespectful manner, "I mean I'm here to shoot that big collie of
yours. He was bit by a mad dog, yesterday. So was three other dogs over
in the village. I shot 'em all; before they had time to d'velop
symptoms and things; or bite anybody. One of 'em," he added,
unctuously, "one of 'em b'longed to that little crippled Posthanger
girl. She cried and begged, something pitiful, when I come for him. But
dooty is dooty. So I--"
"OH!"
The Mistress's horrified monosyllable broke in on the smug recital. She
caught Lad protectingly by the ruff and stared in mute dread at the
lanky and red-whiskered officer. Lad, reading her voice as always,
divined this nasal-toned caller had said or done something to make her
unhappy. His ruff bristled. One corner of his lip lifted in something
which looked like a smile, but which was not. And, very far down in his
throat a growl was born.
But the Master stepped in front of his wife and his dog, and confronted
the constable. Fighting for calmness, he asked:
"Do I understand that you shot those harmless little pups just because
a dog that was sick, and not rabid, happened to nip them? And that
you've come across here with an idea of doing the same thing to Lad? Is
that it?"
"That's the idea," assented Wefers. "I said so, right off, as soon as I
got here. Only, you're wrong about the dog being 'sick.' He was mad.
Had rabies. I'd ought to know. I--"
"How and why ought you to know?" demanded the Master, still battling
for perfect calm, and succeeding none too well. "How ought you to know?
Are you a veterinary? Have you ever made a study of dogs and of their
maladies? Have you ever read up, carefully, on the subject of rabies?
Have you read Eberhardt or Dr. Bennett or Skinner or any of a dozen
other authorities on the disease? Have you consulted such eminent vets
as Hopper and Finch, for instance? If you have, you certainly must know
that a dog, afflicted with genuine rabies, will no more turn out of his
way to bite anyone than a typhoid patient will jump out of bed to chase
a doctor. I'm not saying that the bite of any sick animal (or of any
sick human, for that matter) isn't more or less dangerous; unless it's
carefully washed out and painted with iodine. But that's no excuse to
go around the country, shooting every dog that some sick mongrel has
snapped at. Put such dogs under observation, if necessary; and then--"
"You talk like a fool!" snorted Wefers, in lofty contempt. "I--"
"But I am going to keep you from acting like a fool," returned the
Master, his hard-held temper beginning to fray. "You say you've come
over here to shoot my dog. If ever anyone shoots Lad, I'll be the man
to do it. And I'll have to have lots better reason for it than--"
"Go ahead, then!" vouchsafed the constable, fishing out a rusty service
pistol from his coat-tail pocket. "Go ahead and do it yourself, then;
if you'd rather. It's all one to me, so long's it's done."
With sardonic politeness, he proffered the bulky weapon. The Master
caught it from his hand and flung it a hundred feet away, into the
center of a clump of lilacs.
"So much for the gun!" he blazed, advancing an the astounded Wefers.
"Now, unless you want to follow it--"
"Dear!" expostulated the Mistress, her sweet voice atremble.
"I'm an of'cer of the law!" blustered the offended constable; in the
same breath adding:
"And resisting an of'cer in the p'soot of his dooty is a misde--"
He checked himself, unconsciously turning to observe the odd actions of
Lad.
As the Master had hurled the pistol far from him, the collie had sped
in breakneck pursuit of it. Thus, always, did he delight to retrieve
any object the Mistress or the Master might toss for his amusement. It
was one of Laddie's favorite games, this fetching back of anything
thrown. The farther it might be flung and the more difficult its
landing place, the more zest to the sport.
This time, Lad was especially glad at the diversion. From the voices of
these deities of his, Lad had gathered that the Master was furiously
angry and that the Mistress was correspondingly unhappy. Also, that the
lanky and red-bearded visitor was directly responsible for their stress
of feeling. He had been eyeing alternately the Master and Wefers;
tensely awaiting some overt act or some word of permission which should
warrant him in launching himself on the intruder.
And now, it seemed, the whole thing was a game;--a game wherein he
himself had been invited to play a merry and spectacular part.
Joyously, he flew after the hurtling lump of steel and rubber.
The Master, facing the constable, did not see his pet's performance. He
took up the thread of speech where Wefers dropped it.
"I don't know what the law does or doesn't empower you to do, in such
cases," he said, trying to force his way back to the earlier semblance
of calm. "But I doubt if it permits you to trespass on my land, without
a warrant or a court order of some sort; or to shoot a dog of mine.
And, until I find out the law in the matter, you'll get off this place
and keep off of it. As for the dog, I'll be legally responsible for
him; and I'll guarantee he'll do no damage. So--"
Like Wefers, the Master came to an abrupt halt in his harangue.
For Lad was cantering gleefully toward him, carrying something dark and
heavy between his jaws. Straight to the Master came Lad. Carefully, at
the Master's feet, he laid the rusty pistol.
Then, stepping back a pace, he looked up, eagerly, into the dumfounded
man's face, tail waving, dark eyes aglint with expectation. It had been
hard to locate the weapon, in all that tangle of lilac-stems. It had
been harder to carry the awkwardly heavy thing all the way back, in his
mouth, without dropping it. But, if this was the plaything the Master
had chosen, Lad was only too willing to continue the game.
A little choking sound made the collie shift his gaze suddenly to the
Mistress's troubled face. And the light of fun in his eyes was
quenched. The sight of her splendid dog retrieving so joyously the
weapon designed for his death, was almost too much for the Mistress's
self-control.
The effect on the Master was different.
As Wefers made as though to jump forward and grab the pistol, the
Master said sharply:
"WATCH it, Laddie!"
Instantly, Lad was on the alert. The game, it seemed, had begun again,
and along sterner lines. He was to guard this plaything;--particularly
from the bearded intruder who was snatching so avidly for it.
There was a sharp growl, a flash of fierce white teeth, a bound. One of
Lad's snowy little forepaws was on the fallen pistol. And the rest of
Lad's sinewy body was crouching above it, fangs aglint, eyes blazing
with hot menace.
Wefers jerked back his protruding arm, with extreme quickness; barely
avoiding a deep slash from the collie's shearing eye-teeth. And Lad,
continued to "watch" the pistol.
The dog was having a lovely time. Seldom had he been happier. All good
collies respond in semi-psychic fashion to the moods of their masters.
And, to Lad, the very atmosphere about him was thrilling just now to
waves of stark excitement. With the delightful vanity which is a part
of the collie make-up, he realized that in some manner he himself was a
prominent part of this excitement. And he reveled in it.
As Wefers pulled back his imperiled arm, the Mistress stepped forward,
before the Master could speak or move.
"Even if it were true that he could get rabies by a bite from a rabid
dog," said she, "and even if that dog, yesterday, were mad, that
wouldn't affect Laddie. For he didn't bite Laddie. He never got the
chance. Lad pinned him to the ground. And while the mongrel was
struggling to get up, you shot him. One of your bullets flicked Lad's
foreleg. But the mongrel's teeth never came within twelve inches of
him. I can testify to that."
"He was fighting with a mad dog!" reiterated Wefers, fumingly. "I saw
'em, myself. And when a dog is fighting, he's bound to get bit. I'm not
here to argue over it. I'm here to enforce the law of the sov'r'n State
of Noo Jersey, County of P'saic, Township of--"
"But the law declares a prisoner innocent, till he's proved guilty,"
urged the Mistress, restraining the Master, by a light hand on his
restless arm. "And Lad's not been proved guilty. It isn't proved he was
bitten, at all. I can testify he wasn't. My husband washed the scratch
and he can tell you it wasn't made by a bite. Any veterinary can tell
you the same thing, at a glance. We can establish the fact that Lad was
not bitten. So even if the law lets you shoot a bitten dog,--which I
don't believe it does,--it doesn't empower you to shoot Lad. Why!" she
went on, shuddering slightly, "if Lad hadn't sprung between that brute
and myself, you'd probably be wanting to shoot ME! For I'd have been
bitten, terribly, if Lad hadn't--"
"I'm not here to listen to silly nonsense!" announced Wefer, glaring at
the watchful dog and back at the man and woman, "I came here in p'soot
of my sworn dooty. I been balked and resisted by the two of you; and my
pistol's been stole from me and a savage dog's been pract'c'lly sicked
onto me. I'm an of'cer of the law. And I'm going to have the law on
both of you, for int'fering with me like you have. And I'm going to get
a court order to shoot--"
"Then you haven't a court order or any other authority to shoot him?"
the Master caught him up. "You admit that! You came over here, thinking
you could bluff us into letting you do it, just because you happen to
wear a tin badge! I thought so. Now, my pink-whiskered friend, you'll
stop shouting and making faces; and you'll listen to me, a minute. You
aren't the first officer who has exceeded his authority on the chance
that people will think he's acting within his rights. This time the
bluff fails. With no warrant or summons or other legal power to back
him, a constable has no more right on my place than any negro
trespasser. What you may or may not be able to persuade some magistrate
to do about this, I don't know. But, for the present, you'll clear out.
Get that? I've warned you, in the presence of a witness. If you know
anything of law, you know that a landowner, after such warning, may
eject a trespasser by force. Go. And keep going. That's all."
Wefers sputtered wordlessly, from time to time, during the tirade. But
before its end, he fell silent and began to fidget. He himself was none
too well versed in the matter of his legal rights of intrusion. And,
for the moment, he had no chance to execute his errand. Later, armed
with a magistrate's order, he could pay back with interest his
humiliation of this morning. In the meantime--
"Gimme my gun!" he demanded in grouchy surrender.
The Master stooped; picked up the pistol, and held it in both hands.
Lad, all eagerness, stood dancingly waiting for him to throw it again.
But it was not thrown. Instead, the Master "broke" the weapon; shaking
the greasy cartridges out on to his own palm and then transferring them
to his pockets.
"In case of accidents," he explained, pleasantly, as he handed the
pistol back to its scowling owner. "And if you'll stop at the
post-office, this afternoon, you'll find these shells in an envelope in
your letter-box. Now, chase; unless you want Lad to escort you to your
boat. Lad is fine at escorting undesirables off the Place. Want to see
him perform?"
But Wefers did not answer. Snatching the impotent pistol and shoving it
back into his coattail pocket, he strode lakeward, muttering lurid
threats as he went.
The Mistress watched his lank figure on its way down the lawn to the
dock.
"It's-it's AWFUL!" she faltered, clutching at her husband's arm. "Oh,
you don't suppose he can--can really get leave to shoot Laddie, do you?"
"I don't know," answered the Master, as uneasy as she. "A mad-dog scare
has a way of throwing everybody into a fool panic. There's no knowing
what some magistrate may let him do. But one thing is mighty certain,"
he reassured her. "If the whole National Guard of New Jersey comes
here, with a truckload of shooting-warrants, they aren't going to get
Laddie. I promise you that. I don't quite know how we are going to
prevent it. But we're going to. That's a pledge. So you're not to
worry."
As they talked they continued to watch the constable in his clumping
exit from the Place. Wefers reached the dock, and stamped out to its
extreme end, where was moored the livery scow he had commandeered for
his journey across the lake from the village.
A light wind was blowing. It had caught the scow's wide stern and had
swung it out from the dock. Wefers unhooked the chain and dropped it
clankingly into the bottom. Then, with ponderous uncertainty, he
stepped from the dock's string-piece to the prow of his boat.
A whiff of breeze slapped the loosened scow, broadside on, and sent it
drifting an inch or two away. As a result, Homer Wefers' large
shoe-sole was planted on the edge of the prow, instead of its center.
His sole was slippery from the dew of the lawn. The prow's edge was
still more slippery, from having been the scene of a recent
fish-cleaning.
The constable's gangling body strove in vain to hold any semblance of
balance. His foot slid out from its precarious perch, pushing the boat
farther into the lake. And the dignified officer flapped wildly in
mid-air.
Not being built on a lighter-than-air principle, he failed to hold this
undignified aerial pose for more than the tenth of a second. At the end
of that time he plunged splashingly into the lake, at a depth of
something like eight feet of water.
"Good!" applauded the Master, as the Mistress gasped aloud in not
wholly sorrowful surprise and as Lad ambled gayly down the lawn for a
closer view of this highly diverting sight. "Good! I hope he ruins
every stitch he has on; and then gets rheumatism and tonsilitis. He--"
The Master's babbling jaw fell slack; and the pleased grin faded from
his face.
Wefers had come to the surface, after his ducking. He was fully three
yards beyond the dock and as far from his drifting scow. And he was
doing all manner of sensational things with his lanky arms and legs and
body. In brief, he was doing everything except swim.
It was this phenomenon which had wiped away the Master's grin of pure
happiness.
Any man may fall into the water, and may present a most ludicrous
spectacle in doing so. But, on the instant he comes to the surface, his
very first motions will show whether or not he is a swimmer. It had not
occurred to the Master that anyone reared in the North Jersey
lake-country should not have at least enough knowledge of swimming to
carry him a few yards. But, even as many sailors cannot swim a stroke,
so many an inlander, born and brought up within sight of fresh water,
has never taken the trouble to grasp the simplest rudiments of
natation. And such a man, very evidently, was Homer Wefers, Township
Head Constable.
His howl of crass panic was not needed to prove this to the Master. His
every wild antic showed it. But that same terror-stricken screech was
required to set forth the true situation to the one member of the trio
who had learned from birth to judge by sound and by scent, rather than
by mere sight.
With no good grace, the Master yanked off his own coat and waistcoat,
and bent to unstrap his hiking boots. He did not relish the prospect of
a wetting, for the mere sake of saving from death this atrocious
trespasser. He knew the man could probably keep afloat for at least a
minute longer. And he was not minded to shorten the period of fear by
ripping off his own outer garments with any melodramatic haste.
As he undid the first boot-latchet, he felt the Mistress's tense
fingers on his shoulder.
"Wait!" she exhorted
Astounded at this cold-blooded counsel from his tender-hearted wife, he
looked up, and followed the direction of her eagerly pointing hand.
"Look!" she was exulting. "It'll all solve itself! See if it doesn't.
Look! He can't shoot Laddie, after--after--"
The Master was barely in time to see Lad swirl along the dock with
express-train speed and spring far out into the lake.
The dog struck water, a bare ten inches from Wefers' madly tossing
head. The constable, in his crazy panic, flung both bony arms about the
dog. And, man and collie together disappeared under the surface, in a
swirl of churned foam.
The Mistress cried aloud, at this hideous turn her pretty plan had
taken. The Master, one shoe off and one shoe on, hobbled at top pace
toward the dock.
As he reached the foot of the lawn, Lad's head and shoulders came into
view above the little whirlpool caused by the sinking bodies' suction.
And, at the same moment, the convulsed features of Homer Wefers showed
through the eddy. The man was thrashing and twisting in a way that
turned the lake around him into a white maelstrom.
As the Master set foot on the dock he saw the Collie rush forward with
an impetus that sent both shaggy mahogany shoulders far out of water.
Striking with brilliant accuracy, the dog avoided Wefers' flailing arms
and feet, and clinched his strong teeth into the back of the drowning
man's collar.
Thus, Lad was safe from the blindly clinging arms and from a kick. He
had chosen the one strategic hold; and he maintained it. A splashing of
the unwieldy body made both heads vanish under water, for a bare
half-second, as the Master poised himself on the string-piece for a
dive. But the dive was not made.
For the heads reappeared. And now, whether from palsy of fright or from
belated intelligence,--Wefers ceased his useless struggles; though not
his strangled shrieks for help. The collie, calling on all his wiry
power, struck out for the dock; keeping the man's face above water, and
tugging at his soggy weight with a scientific strength that sent the
two, slowly but steadily, shoreward.
After the few feet of the haul, Wefers went silent. Into his blankly
affrighted face came a look of foolish bewilderment. The Master,
remembering his wife's hint, and certain now of Lad's ability to
complete the rescue, stood waiting on the string-piece. Once, for a
second, Wefers' eyes met his; but they were averted in queer haste.
As Lad tugged his burden beneath the stringpiece, the Master bent down
and gripped the sodden wet shoulders of the constable. One
none-too-gentle heave, and Wefers was lying in a panting and dripping
heap on the clean dock. Lad, relieved of his heavy load, swam leisurely
around to shore. It had been a delightfully thrilling day, thus far,
for the collie. But he was just a bit tired.
By the time the dazed constable was able to sit up and peer owlishly
into the unloving faces of the Mistress and the Master, Lad had shaken
himself thrice and was pattering across the dock toward the group. From
the two humans, Wefers' gaze shifted to the oncoming dog. Then he
glanced back at the sullen depths of lake water beyond the
string-piece. Then he let his head sink on his chest. For perhaps a
whole minute, he sat thus; his eyes shut, his breath still fast and
hysterical.
Nobody spoke. The Mistress looked down at the drenched man. Then she
winked at the equally silent Master, and laid a caressing little hand
on Lad's wet head. At length, Wefers lifted his face and glowered at
the trio. But, as his eye met Lad's quizzically interested gaze, he
fidgeted.
"Well?" prompted the Master, "do you want those cartridges back?"
Wefers favored him with a scowl of utter dislike. Then, his eyes again
averted, the wet man mumbled:
"I come over here today, to do my dooty.--Dogs that get bit by mad dogs
had ought to be shot.--I come over here to do my dooty. Likewise, I
done it.--I shot that dog of yours that got bit, yest'day."
"Huh?" ejaculated the Master.
"This dog here looks some like him," went on Wefers, sulkily. "But it
ain't him. And I'll so report to the author'ties.--I done what I come
to do. The case is closed. And-and-if you folks ever want to sell your
dog, why,--well, I'll just go mortgage something and--and buy him off'n
you!"