_Wherein Mac Dilates on the Human Side of "His Worship, the Chief
Justice," and his Fellow Dogs._
The group about the blazing logs was enriched this afternoon by a new
member. Lonnegan had brought his dog, a big white and yellow St.
Bernard, fluffy as a girl's muff, a huge, splendid fellow, who answered
with great dignity and with considerable condescension to the name of
"Chief," an abbreviation of "His Worship, the Chief Justice."
No other name would have suited him. Grave, dignified, wide-browed, with
deep, thoughtful eyes; ponderous of form, slow in his movements, keeping
perfectly still minutes at a time, he needed only a wig and a pair of
big-bowed spectacles to make him the fitting occupant of any bench.
Mac put his arm around Chief's neck before His Worship had fully made up
his mind as to where on the Daghestan rug he would place his august
person.
The salutation over, and the dog's soft, fur-tippet ears having been
duly rubbed, and his finely modelled cheeks pressed close between Mac's
two warm hands--their two noses were but an inch apart--His Worship
stretched himself out at full length before the fire, his nose resting
on his extended paws, his kindly, human eyes fixed on the crackling
logs.
"Lonnegan," said Mac in a thoughtful tone, "do you know I think a good
deal more of you since you got this dog? I didn't know you were that
human," and Mac changed his seat so that he could rest his hand on
Chief's head.
"Lonnegan hasn't anything human about him," broke in Boggs, tugging at
his collar to give his fat throat the more room; "not in your sense,
Mac. If you will study the Great Architect as closely as I have done,
you will see that his humanity is to always keep one point ahead of the
social game." Here Boggs got up and moved his chair to the other side of
the fireplace, so as to be out of reach of Lonnegan's long arms.
"Let me explain, gentlemen, for I don't want to do this distinguished
man any injustice. You and I, Mac, being common-sense people, without
any frills about us, wear just an ordinary plain scarf-pin--a horseshoe
or a gold ball, or some such trifle. Lonnegan must have a scarab, or a
coin two thousand years old; same thing in his dress, if you study him.
You will note that his collars are an inch higher than ours, his scarfs
twice as puffy, his coat-tails longer, his trouserloons more baggy--not
offensively baggy, gentlemen," and he waved his hand to the coterie;
"perhaps more unique in cut, so to put it. So it is with his dogs. This
big St. Bernard, hulking along after the Great Architect when he takes
his afternoon walks up and down the Avenue, is quite on a par with all
Lonnegan's other frills. You and I would affect an inconspicuous
canine--a poodle, a terrier, or a bull pup. Not so Lonnegan. He wants a
dog as big as a mule. It's a better advertisement than two columns in a
morning paper. 'My dear,' says a stout lady, built in two movements, to
her husband at a theatre" (Boggs's imitation of a society woman's drawl
was now inimitable), "'I saw such a magnificent St. Bernard coming up
the Avenue. Belongs to Mr. Lonnegan, the architect. He certainly is a
man of very exquisite taste. I think it would be a good idea for you to
consult him about the plans for our----'"
[Illustration: "It's a better advertisement than two columns in a
morning paper."]
Lonnegan sprang from his seat and made a lunge at his tormentor with a
look in his eyes as if he intended to throttle Boggs on the spot. At the
same instant the great dog drew in his paws and rose to his feet, his
eyes fixed on his master's movements--rose as an athlete rises, using
the muscles of his knees and ankles to pull his body erect. If his
master was in danger he was ready. Only smothered laughter, however,
came from both Boggs and Lonnegan.
"I take it all back, Lonny," sputtered Boggs, trying to release himself
from Lonnegan's grip. "The woman's husband wanted two country houses,
not one. Call off your dog, I can't fight two brutes at once."
Pitkin sprang to his feet, his partly bald head and forehead rose-pink
in the excitement of the moment.
"Don't call your dog off, Lonny! Don't move. Keep on choking Boggs. Just
look at the pose of that dog. Isn't that stunning. By Jove, fellows!
wouldn't he be a corker in bronze, life size. Just see the line of the
back and lift of the head!" And the sculptor, after the manner of his
guild, held the edge of his hand against his eye as a guide by which to
measure the proportions of the noble beast.
Lonnegan loosened his hold, and Boggs, now purple in the face from loss
of breath and laughter, shook himself free and rearranged his collar
with his fat fingers. The attention of the whole fireside was now
centred on the dog. His pose was now less tense and his legs less rigid,
but his paws had kept their original position on the rug. As he stood,
trying to comprehend the situation, he had the bearing of a charger
overlooking a battle-field.
"No, you're wrong, Pitkin," cried Marny; "Chief would be lumpy and
inexpressive in bronze. He's too woolly. You want clear-cut anatomy when
you're going to put a dog or any other animal in bronze. Color is better
for Chief. I'd use him as a foil to a half-nude, life-size scheme of
brown, yellow, and white; old Chinese jar on her left, filled with
chrysanthemums, some stuffs in the background--this kind of thing. I can
see it now," and Marny picked up a bit of charcoal and blocked in on a
fresh canvas resting on Mac's easel the position of the figure, the men
crowding about him to watch the result.
"Won't do, old man," cried Woods, as soon as Marny's rapid outline
became clear. "Out of scale; all dog and no girl. I'd have him stretched
out as he is now" (Chief had regained his position), "with a fellow in a
chair reading--lamplight on book for high light, dog in half shadow."
"You're quite right, Woods," said Mac, who was still caressing Chiefs
silky ears. "Marny's missed it this time; girl scheme won't do. This is
a gentleman's dog, and he has always moved among his kind."
"Careful, Mac; careful," remarked Boggs in a reproving tone. "You said
'_has_ moved.' You don't mean to reflect on his present owner, do you?"
Mac waved Boggs away with the same gesture with which he would have
brushed off a fly, and continued:
"When I say that he has always lived among _gentlemen_, I state the
exact fact. You can see that in his manners and in the way in which he
retains not only his self-respect, but his courage and loyalty. You
noticed, did you not, that it took him but an instant to get on his feet
when Lonnegan seized Boggs? You will also agree with me that no one has
entered this room this winter more gracefully, or with more ease and
composure, nor one who has known better what to do with his arms and
legs. And as for his well-bred reticence, he has yet to open his
mouth--certainly a great rebuke to Boggs, if he did but know it," and he
nodded in the direction of the Chronic Interrupter. "Great study, these
dogs. Chief has had a gentleman for a master, I tell you, and has lived
in a gentleman's house, accustomed all his life to oriental rugs, wood
fires, four-in-hands, two-wheeled carts, golden-haired children in black
velvet suits, servants in livery--regular thoroughbred. That is, _bred
thorough_, by somebody who never insulted him, who never misunderstood
him, and who never mortified him. Offending a dog is as bad as offending
a child, and ten times worse than offending a woman. A dozen men would
spring to a woman's assistance; no one ever interferes in a quarrel
between a dog and his master. When they do they generally take the
master's side."
Mac reached over, tapped the bowl of his pipe against the brick of the
fireplace, emptied it of its ashes, and laying it on the mantel resumed
his seat.
"It's pathetic to me," he continued, "to see how hard some dogs try to
understand their masters. All they can do is to take their cue from the
men who own them. It isn't astonishing, really, that they should
sometimes copy them. It only takes a few months for a butcher to make
his dog as bloody and as brutal as the toughest hand in his shop."
"What a responsibility," sighed Boggs, turning toward Lonnegan. "You
won't corrupt His Worship with any of your Murray Hill swaggerdoms, will
you, Lonny?"
Lonnegan closed one eye at Boggs and wagged his chin in denial. Mac went
on:
"Dogs can just as well be educated up as educated down. There is no
question of their ability to learn--not the slightest. I am not speaking
of the things they are expected to know--hunting, rat catching, and so
on; I mean the things they are _not_ expected to know. If you'd like to
hear how they can understand each other, get the Colonel to tell you
about those two dogs he saw in Constantinople some two years ago," and
he turned to me.
"It wasn't in Constantinople, Mac," I answered, "it was in Stamboul, on
the Plaza of the Hippodrome."
"Near where I was murdered, and where I still lie buried?" Boggs asked
gravely, with a sly wink at Marny.
"Yes, within a stone's throw of your present tomb, old man, up near the
Obelisk. That plaza is the home of four or five packs of street curs,
who divide up the territory among themselves, and no dog dares cross the
imaginary line without getting into trouble. Every day or so there is a
pitched battle directed by their leaders--always the biggest dogs in the
pack. What Mac refers to occurred some years ago, when, looking over my
easel one morning, I saw a lame dog skulking along by the side of a low
wall that forms the boundary of one side of the plaza. He was on three
legs, the other held up in the air. A big shaggy brute, the leader of
another pack, made straight for him, followed by three others. The
cripple saw them coming, and at once lay down on his back, his injured
paw thrust up. The big dog stood over him and heard what he had to say.
I was not ten feet from them, and I understood every word.
"'I am lame, gentlemen, as you see,' he pleaded, 'and I am on my way
home. I am in too much pain to walk around the side of the plaza where I
belong, and I therefore humbly beg your permission to cross this small
part of your territory.'
"The big leader listened, snarled at his companions who were standing by
ready to help tear the intruder to pieces, sent them back to their
quarters with a commanding toss of his head, and walked by the side of
the cripple until he had cleared the corner; then he slowly returned to
his pack. There was no question about it; if the cripple had spoken
English I could not have understood him better."
"I can beat that yarn," chimed in Woods, "so far as sympathy is
concerned. I was in an omnibus once going up the Boulevard des
Italiennes when a man on the seat opposite me whistled out of the end
window--his two dogs were following behind the 'bus. One was a white
bull terrier, the other a French poodle, black as tar. Whenever anything
got in the way--and it was pretty crowded along there--the dogs fell
behind. When they appeared again the owner would whistle to let them
know where he was. All of a sudden I heard a yell. The poodle had been
run over. I could see him lying flat on the asphalt, kicking. The man
stopped the omnibus and sprang out, and a crowd gathered. In that short
space of time the terrier had fastened his teeth in the poodle's collar,
had dragged him clear of the traffic to the sidewalk, and was bending
over him licking the hurt. Four or five people got out of the stage, I
among them, and a cheer went up for the owner when he picked up the
injured dog in his arms and took him clear of the crowd, the terrier
following behind, as anxious as a mother over her child. I have believed
in the sympathy of dogs for each other ever since."
"My turn now," said Boggs. "My uncle's got a poodle, answers to the name
of Mirza. Got more common sense than anything that walks on four legs.
They keep a bowl in one corner of the dining-room, which is always
filled with water so the dog can get a drink when she wants it. My uncle
says that's one thing half the people who own dogs never think of--dogs
not being able to turn faucets. Well, they shifted servants one day and
forgot to tell the new one about the bowl. Mirza did her best to make
her understand--pulled her dress, got up on her hind legs and sniffed
around the empty tea-cups. No use. Then an idea struck the dog. She made
a spring for the empty bowl and rolled it over with her four paws from
the dining-room into the butler's pantry. By that time the wooden-headed
idiot understood, and Mirza got her drink."
During the discussion Mac had sat with the great head of the St. Bernard
resting on his knee. It was evident that His Worship had found an
acquaintance whom he could trust, one whom he considered his equal. For
some minutes the painter looked into the dog's face, his hands smoothing
the dog's ears, the St. Bernard's eyes growing sleepy under the caress.
Then Mac said in a half-audible tone, speaking to the dog, not to us:
"You've got a great head, old fellow--full of sense. All your bumps are
in the right place. You know a lot of things that are too much for us
humans. I wish you'd tell me one thing. You know what we all think of
you, but what do you think of us--of your master Lonnegan, of this
crowd, this fireplace? Speak out, old man; I'd like to know."
Boggs shifted his fat body in his chair, jerked his head over his
shoulder, and winking meaningly at Lonnegan, said in a low voice:
"Mac is going to give us one of his reminuisances; I know the sign."
"Make the dog begin on Boggs, Mac," cried Woods.
"No, Chief's too much of a gentleman. He knows all about Boggs, but he's
too polite to tell," replied Mac.
"Get him to whisper it then in your off ear," suggested Boggs. "He'll
surprise you with his estimate of one of nature's noblemen," and he
thrust his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat.
"No, keep it to yourself, Chief," remarked Mac. "But I'm not joking, I'm
in dead earnest. Anybody can find out what a man thinks of a dog; but
what does a dog think of a man, especially some of those two-legged
brutes who by right of dollars claim to own them? I took the measure of
a man once who----"
Boggs sprang from his seat and struck one of his ring-master attitudes.
"What did I tell you, gentlemen? Just as I expected, the semi-nuisance
has arrived. Give him room! The great landscape painter is about to
explode with another tale of his youth. You took the measure of a man
once, I think you said, Mac; was it for a suit of clothes or a coffin?
No, don't answer; keep right on."
"Yes, I did take his measure," said Mac, in a low, earnest tone,
ignoring Boggs's aside; "and I've never taken any stock in him since. I
don't think any of you know him, and it's just as well that you don't. I
may be a little Quixotic about these things--guess I am--but I'm going
to stay so. I met this Quarterman--that's more than he deserves; he's
nearer one-eighth of a man than a quarter--up at the club-house on Salt
Beach. I was a guest; he was a member. Big, heavily built young fellow;
weighed about two hundred pounds; rather good-looking; wore the best of
English shooting togs; carried an English gun and carted around a lot of
English leather cases, bound in brass, with his name plate on them. A
regular out-and-out sport of the better type, I thought, when I first
saw him. He had with him one of the most beautiful reddish-brown setters
I ever laid my eyes on--what you'd get with burnt sienna and
madder--with a coat as fine and silky as a camel's hair brush. One of
those clean-mouthed, clean-toothed, agate-eyed, sweet-breathed dogs that
every girl loves at first sight, and can no more help putting her hands
on than she can help coddling a roly-poly kitten just out of a basket.
He had the same well-bred manners that Chief has, the same grace of
movement, same repose, only more gentle and more confiding. The only
thing that struck me as peculiar about him was the way he watched his
master; he seemed to love him and yet to be afraid of him; always ready
to bound out of his way and yet equally ready to come when he was
called--a manner which he never showed to anyone who tried to make
friends with him.
"I saw Quarterman that morning when he started out alone quail
shooting, the setter bounding before him, running up and springing at
him, and off again--doing all the things a human dog does to tell a man
how happy he is to go along, and what a lot of fun the two are going to
have together. I watched them until they got clear of the marshes and
disappeared in the woods on the way to the open country beyond. All that
day the picture of the well-equipped, alert young fellow and the spring
of the joyous setter kept coming to my mind. I don't believe in killing
things, as you know (so I don't shoot), but I thought if I did I'd just
like to have a dog like that one to show me how.
"About six o'clock that night the two returned. I was sitting by the
wood fire--a good deal bigger than this one, the logs nearly six feet
long--when the outer door was swung back and Quarterman came in, his
boots covered with mud, his bird-bag over his shoulder. The setter
followed close at his heels, his beautiful brown coat covered with
burrs and dirt. Both man and dog had had a hard day's work and a poor
one, judging from the bird-bag which hung almost flat against
Quarterman's shoulder.
"Everybody pushed back his chair to make room for the tired-out
sportsman.
"'What luck?' cried out half-a-dozen men at once.
"Quarterman, without answering, stopped in the middle of the room some
distance from the fire, laid his gun on the table, reached around for
his bird-bag, thrust in his hand, drew out a small quail--all he had
shot--and threw it with all his might against the wall of the fireplace,
where it dropped into the ashes--threw it as a boy would throw a brick
against a fence. Then with a vicious hind thrust of his boot he kicked
the setter in the face. The dog gave a cry of pain and crawled under the
table and out of the room.
"'What luck!' growled Quarterman. 'Footed it fifteen miles clear to
Pottsburg, and that damned dog scared up every bird before I could get a
shot at it!' and without another word he mounted the stairs to his room.
"His opinion of the dog was now common property. If any man who had
heard it disagreed with him, he kept his opinion to himself. But what I
wanted to know was what the setter thought of Quarterman? He had
followed him all day through swamps and briars; had run, jumped, crept
on his belly, sniffed, scented, and nosed into every tuft of grass and
brush-heap where a quail could hide itself; had walked miles to the
man's one, leaped fences, scoured hills, raced down country roads and
over ditches, had pointed and flushed a dozen birds the brute couldn't
hit, and after doing his level best had come back to the club-house
expecting to get a warm corner and a hot supper--his right as well as
Quarterman's--and instead got a kick in the face.
"I ask you now, what did the dog think of him? I was so mad I had to go
outside and let off steam myself. I was half Quarterman's weight and ten
years his senior, but if he had stayed five minutes longer by that fire
I am quite sure I should have told him what I thought of him."
"I bet you told the dog, didn't you, Mac?" remarked Lonnegan.
"Yes, I did. Gave him a hug, and hunted up the cook and saw he was fed.
He tried to tell me all about it, putting out his paw and drawing it in
again, looking up into my face with his big eyes--tears in 'em, I tell
you--real tears! Not so much from the hurt as from the mortification. I
understood then his shrinking away from his master. It hadn't been the
first time he had been humiliated and hurt. Dirty brute! If I knew where
he was I think I'd go and thrash him now."
The coterie broke out into a laugh over Mac's indignation, but a laugh
in which there was more love than ridicule.
"Yes, I would; I feel like it this minute. But I tell you the setter got
his revenge; a revenge that showed his blood and breeding; the revenge
of a gentleman.
"Back of the club-house was a swampy place where some cranberry raisers
had dug holes and squares trying to get something to grow, and back of
this was another swamp perhaps a mile or two wide. Ugly place--full of
suck-holes, twisted briars, and vines--where they told Quarterman he
could get some woodcock or snipe or whatever you do get in a marsh. The
setter rose to his feet to accompany him (this was two days later) but
was met with, 'Go back, damn you!' Followed by an aside, 'What that fool
dog wants is a dose of buckshot, and he'll get it if he ain't careful.'
"That day I had been off sketching and did not get back until nearly
dark. There were only two other men left besides myself and Quarterman,
most of the others having gone to town. When dinner was served the
steward went upstairs expecting to find Quarterman asleep on his bed. No
Quarterman! Then he began to inquire around. He had not been back to
luncheon, and no one had seen him since he went off in the morning
heading for the cranberry swamp. The setter was still outside on the
porch, where he had lain all day, foot-sore and worn out, the men said,
with his hunt the day before. I made no reply to this, but I thought
differently. Eight o'clock came, then nine, and still no sign of
Quarterman. One of the club servants suggested that something must have
happened to him. 'Never Mr. Quarterman's way,' he added, 'to be out
after sundown, in all the five years he had been a member of the club.
He certainly would not go to the city in his shooting clothes, and he
hadn't changed them, for the suit he had worn down from town still hung
in his closet.' At ten o'clock we got uneasy and started out to look for
him, a party of three, the two servants carrying stable lanterns. The
setter again rose to his feet, wondering what was up, and was again
rebuffed, this time by the steward.
"We soon found that fooling around a swamp of a dark night, with your
eyes blinded by a lantern, was no joke. Every other step we took we fell
into holes or got tripped up by briars. We stumbled on, skirting by the
edge of the cranberry patch, hollering as loud as we could; stopping to
listen; then going on again. We tried the other big swamp, but that was
impossible in the dark. Then an idea popped into my head. I gave the
lantern I was carrying to one of the men, hollered to the others to stay
where they were till I got back, cleared the cranberry patch, struck out
for the club-house on a run, sprang upstairs, grabbed Quarterman's coat
hanging in the closet, ran downstairs again, and shoved it under the
nose of the setter. Then I told him all about it, just as I'd tell you.
Quarterman was lost--he was in the swamp, perhaps; where, we didn't
know--and he was the only one who could find him. Would he go? _Go!_ You
just ought to have seen him! He threw his nose up in the air, sniffed
around as though he were looking for gnats to bite; made a spring from
the porch and began circling the lawn, his nose to the ground and sand;
then he made a bound over the fence and disappeared in the night.
"I hollered for the others and we kept after the setter as best we
could. Every now and then he would give a short bark--sometimes far
away, sometimes nearer. All we could do was to skirt along the edge of
the cranberry patch swinging the lanterns and hollering, 'Quarterman!
Quarterman!' until our throats gave out.
"Then I heard a quick, sharp bark, followed by a series of short yelps,
not fifty yards away. Next there came a faint halloo, a man's voice. We
pushed on, and there, about ten yards from hard ground, we found
Quarterman stretched out, the setter squatting beside him. He had
slipped into a hole some hours before, had broken his ankle, and had
made up his mind to wait until daylight, the pain, every time he moved,
almost making him faint. He was soaked to the skin and shivering with
cold. We helped him up on one foot, carried him to dry land, and finally
got him home; the dog following at a respectful distance.
"After we had put Quarterman to bed and had sent a man off on horseback
to Pottsburg for a doctor, I looked up the setter. He was in his old
place on the porch, stretched out under one of the wooden benches, his
nose resting on his paws--just as Chief lies here now--thinking the
whole situation over. He raised his head for an instant, licked my hand
and looked up inquiringly into my face as if expecting some further
service might be required of him; then he dropped his head again and
kept on thinking. Nobody had bothered himself about him; they hadn't
even thanked him in their hearts. Nothing to thank him for. Childish to
think of it! All the setter had done was just being plain dog. Hunting
up things was what he was born for.
"Next morning the dog turned up missing.
"Quarterman raised himself up on his elbow when he heard the news and
said he must be found at any cost; he was worth five hundred dollars.
The men started out, of course; searched the stables, boat-houses,
swamp, and fields clear down to the water's edge; whistled and called;
did all the things you do when a dog is lost--but no setter. Everybody
wondered why he ran away. Some said one thing, some another. I knew why.
_He had gone off in search of a gentleman._"
"Did Quarterman get well?" ventured Lonnegan.
"I don't know and I don't care. I left the next morning."
"Did Quarterman get his dog back?" asked Boggs.
"Not while I was there. I could have told him where to look for him, but
I didn't. I saw him on a porch with some children about a week after
that, when I was driving through a neighboring village--but I didn't
send word to Quarterman. I had too much respect for the dog.
"Come here, old fellow," and Mac took the great head of the St. Bernard
between his warm hands and the two snuggled their cheeks together.