Produced by Clare Graham, in memory of my dear father
George Edgar Graham who first introduced me to Finn and
his son Jan.
FINN THE WOLFHOUND
[Illustration]
By A. J. DAWSON
AUTHOR OF "'THE MESSAGE," "THE GENTEEL A.B.," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY R. H. BUXTON
[Frontispiece: The man had his back to the withered iron-bark
now.]
This etext prepared from a 1909 reprint of the first edition
published in 1908 by Grant Richards of London and printed by
William Brendon and Son Ltd of Plymouth.
TO "THE MISTRESS OF THE KENNELS" AND TO THE MEMORY OF
TYNAGH MOTHER OF WOLFHOUND HEROES ITS WRITER DEDICATES
THIS HISTORY
Witchampton, 1908
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. The Mother of Heroes
CHAPTER II. In the Beginning
CHAPTER III. The Foster-mother
CHAPTER IV. First Steps
CHAPTER V. Youth beside the Downs
CHAPTER VI. The Ordeal of the Ring
CHAPTER VII. Revelations
CHAPTER VIII. Finn Walks Alone
CHAPTER IX. The Heart of Tara
CHAPTER X. A Transition Stage
CHAPTER XI. A Sea Change
CHAPTER XII. The Parting of the Ways
CHAPTER XIII. An Adventure by Night
CHAPTER XIV. The Southern Cross Circus
CHAPTER XV. The Making of a Wild Beast
CHAPTER XVI. Martyrdom
CHAPTER XVII. Freedom
CHAPTER XVIII. Too Late
CHAPTER XIX. The Domestic Lure
CHAPTER XX. The Sunday Hunt
CHAPTER XXI. Three Dingoes went a-walking
CHAPTER XXII. A Break-up in Arcadia
CHAPTER XXIII. The Outcast
CHAPTER XXIV. A Lone Bachelor
CHAPTER XXV. Mated
CHAPTER XXVI. The Pack and its Masters
CHAPTER XXVII. Single Combat
CHAPTER XXVIII. Domestic Life in the Mountain Den
CHAPTER XXIX. Tragedy in the Mountain Den
CHAPTER XXX. The Exodus
CHAPTER XXXI. The Trail of Man
CHAPTER XXXII. In the Last Ditch
CHAPTER XXXIII. Back from the Wild
LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
THE MAN HAD HIS BACK TO THE WITHERED IRON-BARK NOW (Frontispiece)
FINN AND HIS FOSTER-MOTHER
TARA SMILED BROADLY, AND STRETCHED OUT HER FORE-LEGS ON THE GROUND
THE GATE LEADING INTO THE YARD OPENED, AND BILL APPEARED
FINN'S TEETH SANK DEEP
THE NEXT INSTANT SAW THE PROFESSOR FLUNG BACK AT LENGTH AGAINST THE
BARS OF THE CAGE
WAS LOST IN THE SHADOW OF THE MAIN TENT
SPURRING HIS HORSE FORWARD
HE WAS BACKING GRADUALLY TOWARDS A BOULDER BESIDE THE TRAIL
FINN WAS STANDING ROYALLY ERECT
FINN'S TOWERING FORM STOOD OUT CLEARLY IN THE MOONLIGHT
HE SLUNG THE WALLABY OVER HIS SHOULDER AND SET OUT FOR THE MOUNTAIN
SCRAMBLING AND SLIDING DOWN THE HIGH BANKS OF A RIVER-BED
THEY SETTLED WITHIN A DOZEN PACES OF HIS RECUMBENT FIGURE
FOUR MEN WERE RIDING TOGETHER THROUGH THE LOW BURNT-UP SCRUB
THE WOLFHOUND RAISED HIS BEARDED MUZZLE, AND SOFTLY LICKED THE
MASTER'S THIN BROWN HAND
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
THE MOTHER OF HEROES
For a man whose thirtieth year was still not far behind him, the
man's face was over careworn. It suggested that he felt life's
difficulties more keenly than a man should at that age. But it may
have been that this was a necessary part of the keenness with which
the whole of life appealed to him; its good things, as well as its
worries.
He rose from his writing-table and straightened his back with a
long sigh, clenching both hands tightly, and stretching both arms
over his shoulders, as he moved across the little room to its
window. The window gave him an extensive view of dully gleaming
roofs and chimney-pots, seen through driving sleet, towards the end
of a raw forenoon in February. The roofs he saw were those of one
of London's cheap suburbs; first, a block of "mansions" similar to
those in which his own flat was situated; then a rather superior
block, where the rents were much cheaper because they were called
"dwellings"; and beyond that, the huddled small houses of a quarter
with which no builder had interfered since early Victorian days.
[Illustration]
The man turned away from the dripping window, and looked round this
den in which he worked. Its walls were mostly covered by
book-shelves, but in the gaps between the shelves there were pictures; a
rather odd mixture of pictures, of men and women and dogs. The men
and women were mostly people who had written books, and the dogs
were without exception Irish Wolfhounds; those fine animals which
combine in themselves the fleetness of the greyhound, the strength
of the boarhound, and the picturesque, wiry shaggyness of the
deerhound; those animals whose history goes back to the beginning
of the Christian era; through all the storied ages in which they
were the friends and companions of kings and princes, great
chieftains and mighty hunters.
For several minutes the man paused before a picture, underneath
which was written: "The Mistress of the Kennels." This picture
showed a girl with wind-blown hair, happy face, and laughing eyes,
standing, with a small puppy in her arms, in the midst of a wide
kennel enclosure on the sloping rise of an upland meadow. In the
background one saw a comfortable-looking house, half hidden by two
huge walnut trees, and flanked by a row of aged elms. When the man
had looked his fill at this picture, and at other pictures of
various Irish Wolfhounds, each marked with the name and age of the
hound depicted, he sighed, and went to the window again. While he
stood there, looking out through the February sleet, the door of
the den opened, and the Mistress of the Kennels came in, wearing a
big, loose overall, or pinafore, which covered her dress
completely. Her face had not quite the colour which the picture
made one feel it must have had when she stood in that wide,
windy, kennel enclosure; but it was still a sunny face; the eyes
were still laughing eyes; a loving, lovable face, one felt, even
though London had robbed it of some of its open-air freshness. She
walked up to the man's side, and, seeing the expression on his face
as he gazed out over the wet roofs, she said--
"Yes, it is, rather--isn't it?--after Croft."
"Oh, don't talk of Croft, child, or you'll bring my spring madness
upon me before its time. I have had hints of it this morning, as it
is. It seems almost incredible that we have only been two years and
four months away from Croft, and the old open life. I was looking
at the picture of the Mistress of the Kennels just now. Do you
remember that morning? Tara's first litter hadn't long been weaned.
My goodness, the air was sweet in that meadow! That was the morning
poor old crippled Eileen ran the rabbit down, you remember."
"Yes, and it was old Tara's third day out, after that awful
illness. Well, well, it's a blessed thing to know that the old dear
is happy, and has such a lovely home down in Devonshire, isn't it?"
"Yes, oh yes; I know it might have been worse, and I'm a brute to
be discontented, but--two and a half years! Why, it seems more like
twenty, since we lived in a place where you could lean out of the
window and drink the air; where I could go outside in my pyjamas
before tubbing in the morning, and see the dogs, and set the
rabbits flying in the orchard. Two years and four months. Do you
know, if we give spring madness half a chance this year, it strikes
me it will lead us out of this huddled, pent-in town, out to the
open again. I almost think we could manage it now. I hardly seem to
have lifted my nose from that table since last summer; but it's
true the bank book shows small results as yet."
"And four years was to be the minimum, wasn't it? We thought of
five, at first."
"Yes, yes; I know. My idea was that we would not go back till it
seemed sure we should be able really to stay; no more returns to
town with our tails between our legs. But, all the same, when I
look out of that window--if we _really_ lived cottage style, you
know."
"But should we? Cottages don't have kennels, you know; not
Wolfhound kennels, anyhow."
"I know. Oh, of course, it would be quite unjustifiable, quite mad;
but--I thought I felt signs of spring madness when I looked out of
that window this morning."
"Oh, well! Now do you know what I came in for? I came to tell you
that this is the last day of the Dog Show at the Agricultural Hall.
You remember that I have to go over to Mrs. Kenneth's this
afternoon, and I think it would be a good plan for you to take an
afternoon off and go to the Show. If you don't, it will be the
third year you have missed it. I really think you ought to go. It
will do you good."
"H'm! I should hardly have thought a Dog Show was a good thing for
spring madness and the change fever; rather dangerous, I should
have thought," said the man, with a queer little twisted smile.
"Oh, yes; I think it is all right; quite bracing; a sort of trial
of strength; and quite safe, because we know that madness in that
direction is simply and altogether impossible. You have been
working too hard; and besides, it will do you good to meet the
people. You will see a lot of the youngsters we reared; there are
three champions among them now. Do go!"
A little more than an hour later he was on his way to the Dog Show,
at which, in other days, he had been one of the principal
exhibitors. A bout of ill-health, combined with consequent
diminution of earnings, and a characteristic habit of doing things
on a more generous scale than his income justified, had led to a
break-up of his country home, with its big kennels and stabling,
and a descent upon London in pursuit of economical living and
increased earnings. Parting with the kennels and their inhabitants
had been the severest wrench of all; and it is probable that, even
in the mean little town flat, room would have been found for Tara,
the well-loved mother of Irish Wolfhound heroes, but for the
special circumstance that an excellent home had been offered for
her in Devonshire. The Devonshire lady to whom Tara had, after long
deliberations, been sold by the Master, had been extremely keen
upon purchasing her, and, in addition to offering a splendid home,
had faithfully promised that in no circumstances whatever would she
think of parting with Tara unless to the Master himself. Here then
was an opportunity which the man had felt that he could not afford
to miss.
He had been very much concerned about other matters and other
troubles at the time, but when the actual morning of Tara's
departure had arrived, he had begun to feel very bad about it. The
household gathered round to bid good-bye to the beautiful hound,
and her Master himself took her to the station. When Tara was in
the guard's van she looked out through a barred window at her
friend on the station platform, and he said afterwards that the
situation exhausted every ounce of self-control he possessed. He
had an overpowering impulse, even when the train was moving, to
jump aboard and release old Tara.
"I would sooner face the Bankruptcy Court than have her mournful
old eyes turned upon me again with just that wonderingly
reproachful look," he said.
But glowing reports were received of Tara's happiness in her new
home, with its extensive grounds and generous management; and,
though Tara was never forgotten--one does not forget such a mother
of heroes, when one has bred her and nursed her through mortal
illness--her Master had ceased to grieve about her or to feel
self-reproachful about having parted with her.
Arrived in the great show building, he wandered up and down between
the benches, pausing now and again to speak to an old acquaintance,
human or canine, as the case might be. But this was the last day of
the show, and the majority of the exhibitors were away. The place
had a half-dismantled air about it. The Show was virtually over.
Presently the Master found himself in a kind of outbuilding, where
an auction sale of dogs was being held. There he sat down on a
chair at the edge of the ring in which the dogs for sale were being
led to and fro by attendants for inspection.
After a while a young Irish Wolfhound was led into the ring for
sale, and immediately monopolized the Master's attention, for it
was a dog of his own breeding, sold by him from the country home,
Croft, soon after weaning time. He handled the dog with a deal of
interest, and was expatiating upon its merits to a small group of
possible buyers when he felt another dog nuzzling his arm and wrist
from behind, where it was evidently held by a chain, or in some
other way prevented from coming farther forward, for its muzzle was
pressing hard under his cuff. But the Master was too much
interested in examining the young hound then being offered for sale
to pay any attention to any other animal. In due course, however,
the young Wolfhound was sold and led away, and the auctioneer was
heard to say--
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to lot number a hundred and
twenty-seven, lot one-two-seven, the--er--the--er--er--yes, ladies
and gentlemen, the dam of the fine young hound just sold--a
remarkable good bargain, too--to my friend Mr. Scarr-Hislop. This
magnificent bitch, whose show record I will read to you directly,
is, most of you are probably aware, by the famous Champion O'Leary,
ex--er--Come, come, man; let's have that bitch in the ring, please.
No one can see her there."
The auctioneer spoke sharply to an attendant who stood close to the
Master's seat tugging at a chain. The Master, who had been busy
in conversation up till that moment, turned now to respond to the
pressingly affectionate advances of the unseen animal, whose cold
muzzle he had felt at his wrist for some minutes past.
"Just push her out for me, sir, if you please," said the rebuked
attendant, sulkily. "I can't get her to budge from your chair. The
brute's as strong as a mule."
"Let me have the chain a minute," said the Master, as he rose from
his chair. "I expect you've frightened the---- Why--Great Caesar!
Why--Tara! Tara--dear--old--lady. Who the devil put this hound in
here?"
"Mrs. Forsyth, the owner, put her in; she's for sale, without
reserve," said a groom, who forced his way forward through the
crowd at this moment.
The Master wasted some moments, but not many, in wondering,
disgusted expostulation, while fondling the head of poor Tara, who
had stood erect with her fore-paws on his shoulders the instant he
recognized her, her noble face all alight with gladness and love.
Through ten acutely unhappy minutes she had nuzzled her friend's
hand, and gained never a hint of recognition or response. Then the
Master walked up to the auctioneer's rostrum, followed by Tara,
who, with no apparent effort, dragged the sulky, puzzled attendant
after him, paying not the slightest heed to his angry jerks at her
collar.
"I'm sorry," said the auctioneer, after a few moments'
conversation; "but I cannot possibly postpone the sale, can I? I
had my instructions direct from the owner, and she should know. I
am told the dog is positively to be sold, and---- No, there is no
reserve at all. Yes, certainly, I will take your cheque as deposit,
if you will get it endorsed by the Show Secretary. But---- Very
well, sir; no need to blame me about it. I'll give you five
minutes. Bring in lot 128, Johnson."
Five minutes was not much of a respite, but the Master meant to
make the most of it. See old Tara put up and sold to a dealer in
the ring, he felt he could not. The bare idea of her being held
there in the auction-room by a show attendant--Tara, the queen of
Wolfhound mothers, the daughter of innumerable generations of
Wolfhound queens, the noblest living dam of her noble race--was
maddening to the man who had bred and reared her, seen her through
her puppy's ills, and bred from her the most famous hounds of the
day. The groom said Mrs. Forsyth was in the tea-room, and there the
Master sought her, with anger and anxiety in his eye; sought her
unavailingly and in a frenzy of haste. To and fro he hurried
through the huge, noisy show building. At one moment of his
fruitless search he obtained a card from the Show Secretary stating
that his cheque might be accepted; but even as he thanked the
worried official for his confidence in an old exhibitor, he
realized with bitterness that he could not by any stretch of fancy
pretend that he was able to afford anything like the sort of price
that Tara would bring. Not a sign did he see of Mrs. Forsyth, and
at last a Kennel-man, whom he remembered tipping years before for
some slight service, informed him that he had seen Mrs. Forsyth
leaving the building some time before. Almost despairing now, and
conscious that the limit of time given him was passed, he hurried
back to the auction-room, caught a glimpse of his beautiful Tara
standing sorrowful and stately in the ring, head and tail both
carried low, and heard a tall, clean-shaven man in a kennel-coat
bid forty-eight guineas for her.
"Forty-eight!" echoed the auctioneer. "This magnificent Irish
Wolfhound bitch, the dam of many winners and two champions, is
positively going for forty---- Why, gentlemen, she'd be worth that
to the Natural History Museum!"
"Forty-nine!" cried the Master, with a tightening of his lips.
And then he saw the mean, ferrety face of a well-known low-class
dealer thrust forward from among the crowd. This dealer was
notorious for keeping a large number of big Danes and Newfoundlands
in the miserable backyard of a cobbler's shop in the East End of
London. He had been ordered out of show rings before that day for
malpractices. He had never owned a Wolfhound, but he was a shrewd
business judge of the values of dogs. He nodded to the auctioneer,
and that gentleman nodded responsively before taking up his tale
afresh.
"Fifty guineas only is offered for the celebrated Irish Wolfhound
Tara, by the famous Champion O'Leary. Fifty guineas only is
offered, and the time is running merrily on, gentlemen, all the
time. Fifty guineas only is offered--and one. Fifty-one
guineas--Thank you, sir. Fifty and one guineas is my last bid for----"
The auctioneer babbled serenely on, and the Master followed his
words, rather pale in the face now, for fifty-one guineas was a
great deal more than he could afford to pay at this time, for such
a purpose.
The ferret-faced dealer raised the price to fifty-three guineas,
and the Master bit his lip and made it fifty-four.
"May I say fifty-five for you, sir?" said the auctioneer to the
clean-shaven man in the kennel-coat.
"If you'll just wait one moment, sir; I must just ask my----" The
clean-shaven man was edging his way towards the back of the crowd,
where several ladies and gentlemen were seated at a table just out
of sight of the ring.
"Time and tide and auctioneers wait for no man, sir," continued the
auctioneer. "The hammer is very near to falling, gentlemen. The
magnificent St. Bernard dog--um--er----The magnificent Irish
Wolfhound Tara is going for fifty-four guineas only; for fifty-four
guin--and one----Thank _you_, sir"--this to the ferret-faced
dealer--"at fifty-five guineas only, this noble animal is going for
fif----Why, gentlemen, what has come over us this afternoon? Her
record alone is worth more than that. You must know that if this
animal were sold by private treaty, double the sum would not
purchase her. What am I to say for the gentleman who appeared to be
recognized by this fine animal? Surely, sir, civility demands a
little recognition of such touching devotion!"
"We're not dealing in personalities, sir," snapped the Master.
"Sixty guineas!"
And then he turned on his heel; this desperate bid being far more
than he could afford. The auctioneer smiled amiably.
"As you say, sir, this is strict business, strict business; and all
I am offered for this magnificent hound, gentlemen, is sixty
guineas! But my instructions are to sell, gentlemen; and sell I
must, whatever the figure." He raised his hammer. "At sixty
guineas, gent--and one. At sixty-one guineas, gentlemen; lot number
127 is going--a rare bargain for somebody--going! Will nobody try
another guinea on this magnifi----Thank _you_, sir! That's a little
better, gentlemen. Seventy guineas I think you said, sir?"--this to
the man in the kennel-coat, who had returned from his visit to the
back of the crowd.
The ferret-faced dealer who had bid sixty-one guineas now turned
his back on the ring; and, as he heard the cry of seventy guineas,
the Master moved slowly forward among the crowd toward the door of
the building. He dared not offer more, and he could not wait to see
Tara led out of the ring by some stranger. He paused a moment,
without looking up, and heard the auctioneer's "Going, going,
gone!" Then he walked to the entrance of the main hall, to escape
from the scene of so grievous a disappointment.
Outside, in the main building, while moodily filling a pipe, the
Master decided that, whatever happened, he must find out who had
purchased Tara in order that he might put in a word for his dear
old friend, and thereby, it might be, ensure more consideration for
her in her new home. There were one or two little whims and
peculiarities of hers which he must explain. He thought of pretty
Mrs. Forsyth and her broken pledge regarding Tara. He looked along
the dusty, littered hall, and, in the distance, saw an elderly lady
leading an Irish Wolfhound. A moment later, and he recognized the
hound as Tara, and the lady as a good friend of his own, a kindly,
wealthy Yorkshire woman who had bought two whelps of him before he
left the country, and with whom he had corresponded since. He had
visited this lady, too, to help her in the matter of some doggy
trouble of hers. Now she was walking directly toward him, leading
Tara, and smiling and nodding to him. Just then the lady leaned
forward and unsnapped Tara's chain. In an instant, the great hound
bounded forward to greet her well-loved friend, the Master,
furiously nuzzling his hands, and finally standing erect to reach
his face, a paw on either shoulder, her soft eyes glistening,
brimming over with canine love and delight. The man's eyes were not
altogether dry, either, as he muttered and growled affectionate
nonsense in Tara's silky ears. His heart swelled as he felt the
tremulous excitement in the great hound's limbs.
"You see, dear old Tara cannot be deceived; she knows her real
friends," said the lady from Yorkshire, as she shook hands with the
Master. "Please take her chain, and never give any one else the
right to handle it. You will allow me this pleasure, I am sure, if
only because of the love I bear Tara's son." (One of the whelps
this lady had bought from him was a son of Tara.) "I know Mrs.
Forsyth quite well--a whimsical, fanciful little person, who takes
up a new fad every month, and is apt to change her pets as often as
her gloves. I could not possibly let a stranger buy the beautiful
mother of my Dhulert, and it gives me so much real pleasure to be
the means of bringing her to your hands again."
This good woman bowed her silvery head when the Master took her
hand in his, because she had caught a glimpse of what glistened in
his eyes, as he tried to give words to the gratitude that filled a
heart already swelled by another emotion inspired by Tara.
They walked all the way home, the Master and Tara; and twice they
made considerable detours (despite the distance still before them),
for the sake of spending a few minutes in open spaces, where there
was grass--smutty and soiled it is true, but grass--and comparative
solitude. In these places they exchanged remarks, and Tara placed a
little London mud on each of the Master's shoulders, and he made
curious noises in his throat, such as Tara had been wont to
associate with early morning scampers in an upland orchard, after
rabbits.
At last they came to the "mansions," and made great show of
creeping along close to the railing, and dodging quickly in at the
entrance to avoid being overlooked from the windows above. As a
matter of fact tenants of the flats in these buildings were not
supposed to keep dogs at all, while the idea of an Irish Wolfhound,
thirty-two inches high the shoulder!---- But it was little the
Master cared that night. The meeting between Tara and the Mistress
of the Kennels was a spectacle which afforded him real joy. The
flat seemed ridiculously tiny when once Tara was inside it; but,
like all her race, this mother of heroes was a marvel of deftness,
and could walk in and out of the Mistress's little drawing-room
without so much as brushing a chair-leg. There was great rejoicing
in the little flat that night; and a deal of wonderful planning,
too, I make no doubt.
And this was how Tara, the mother of heroes, returned to the
friends who had watched over her birth and early training, and
later motherhood, with every sort of loving care.
[Illustration]