IV

Daniel was one of those dogs that die famous, though belonging to a small

circle; not famous in the sense in which the dogs of history are so, but

because he possessed individuality and stamped himself upon the memories of

all who ever met him. And these last were not few, for Dan had travelled

widely and had gathered multitudes of friends. Then, again, he possessed

those two almost indispensable adjuncts of popularity--delightful manners

and a beautiful face. It was his invariable custom to get up when any one

came into a room; and when he advanced to meet them, it might certainly

have been said that, in his case, the tail literally wagged the dog, for

his hind-quarters were moved from the middle of his back and went in rhythm

with the tail. His looks were perfect. Being by Pagan I., he possessed not

only eyes set in black and a coal-black snout, but also that further

characteristic of dogs of his date, the blackest of black ears--a feature

now entirely lost in the case of Irish terriers, and never, it is said, to

be regained.

Apart from a liberal education and the miscellaneous knowledge he had

picked up for himself, to say nothing of a wonderful series of clever

tricks, the instinct known as the sense of direction was in his case

developed to an altogether abnormal extent. Definite traces of this were

noticeable when he was still a puppy; but it was at all times impossible

for him to lose his way. As he grew older, this instinct became so

marked, that it set others wondering whether or not there existed among

dogs a sixth, and perhaps a seventh, sense, lying far beyond the grasp of

human, limited intelligence.

Dogs, as we all know, are not the only animals, that possess this

mysterious instinct. They share it with many other classes, such as those

of the feline tribe, and also with the birds and a number of insects. In

fact, all animals appear to possess it in varying degree; they are all

more or less able to find their way home. Yet, study it how we may, we

are at fault when we try to account for it. In many cases, the homing

instinct is apparently governed by sight; but many scientific observers

entertain the idea that the sense of smell, in the majority of instances,

will be found to lie at the root of the matter. Possibly they are right.

When, however, we are brought face to face with an exceptional exhibition

of the sense, we have to confess that we are left unconvinced by any of

the theories that have at present been advanced. It is no unusual thing

for a dog to find its way home along a road it had not previously

travelled, going with the wind, and in the dark. One case is known to the

writer where a dog found the ship it had come out in in a foreign port to

which it had been taken, and made a voyage by sea, as well as a

considerable journey by land on its return to this country, in order to

reach its home. A cat also, within the writer's knowledge, found its way

back to its home, though it had been brought some distance in a sack

lying at the bottom of a farmer's gig, and though the return journey

entailed traversing the streets of a busy town. Any one may test a bee's

powers in the same way, by affixing to it a small particle of

cotton-wool. When liberated, it will take a perfectly straight or bee

line to its hive, though this lie at a considerable distance. It is

unnecessary to refer to the achievements of carrier-pigeons, when set

free after a long journey and the lapse of many hours, or to the way in

which rooks, especially, as well as starlings, will find their way to

their usual roosting-places across wide valleys shrouded in dense

November fogs.

Nor must we succumb here to the temptations offered by the very mention

of migrants, though we may well ask, what is the power that enables a

swallow to leave the banks of the Upper Nile and arrive at the nest it

left the year before, beneath the eaves of a cottage standing on the

banks of the Upper Thames? Or what directs the turtle-dove, year by year,

from the oleander-grown banks of the streams of Morocco to the more

grateful shade of our English woodlands? Yet marked birds have proved the

truth of these and still more wonderful achievements.

Instinct, the dire necessity of obtaining proper food, the perpetuation

of the tribe--Nature's most imperious laws--lie no doubt at the back of

many mysteries. Yet to say this is not to account for the sense before

us, any more than it is to solve those innumerable problems that are

scattered all along our several roads, and that we stumble over every

step we take. Leaving out of count such systematic, and apparently

scientific, labours as those of the ants, bees, and wasps, we constantly

find in the animal kingdom powers being exercised, as, for instance, in

the case of the earthworms and the moles, that are not to be explained by

the use of the words instinct, intelligence, and necessity. The humblest

of animals appears often to be handling forces with ease and familiarity,

the range of which it must apparently, if not obviously, be unaware. But

if this last is true, and these animals that are blind walk blind, what

are we to say of ourselves, when we are frequently doing the same, and

handling forces that we are totally unable to define?

The digression is a lengthy one; but even now a further step must be

taken. The man has, in the dog, his one real intimate in the whole animal

world. It will be generally admitted that the dog depends exceptionally

upon the man and the man often largely also upon the dog, and that in

this we have yet another instance of that interdependence that is to be

found throughout Nature and wheresoever we look. This, however, is not

the chief point in considering the relationship existing between the two.

There is something much deeper, and that goes much further.

Man, we are told, holds supreme dominion on Earth. He is King over all

things living, both great and small; and this constitutes at once his

endowment and his responsibility. Yet this supreme power is being

perpetually modified, not only by the forces he seeks to control--whose

so-called laws he has to obey, if they are to be subjected to his use--but

also by those very creatures to whom he stands in the relation of a King.

It is here, in the animal kingdom, that the action of the dog once again

stands first; for what powers of modification and influence can transcend

those which effect a frequent and practical impression upon the actions of

this so-called King,--by appealing, as the dog often does, to man's moral

sense; by claiming love outside man's own circle, in return for love given

without stint; by calling for a wider self-sacrifice, in the light of a

trustfulness and loyalty that is exhibited here and nowhere else in Nature

in the same unfaltering degree?

The dog does all this and more, as will be shown, and by ways and

instincts that are as unfathomable as the one to which reference has just

been made.

It is time to return to the more homely matter of Dan, that instances may

be given of how, on one occasion out of many, he exhibited the possession

of the sense of direction, and also of the eye he had for country.

The writer had to make a journey to a neighbouring town by rail. The

distance as the crow flies was not more than six miles, but the railway

journey took the best part of an hour and entailed a change and waiting

at a junction. Daniel accompanied him, having never made the journey

before, or visited the junction, or the station of the town referred to.

On arrival, the writer elected to walk. Now Daniel was almost entirely

strange to towns, and, though all went well at first, he finally

succumbed to the fascinations of the streets, and disappeared. Every

means were at once taken to find him; the police station was visited, the

cab-drivers were warned, and a reward was offered. In the end, the writer

had to return without the dog, and face the reproaches of the family. A

gloom fell upon the house for the rest of the evening. But soon after ten

o'clock a bark was heard, the front door was thrown open, and Daniel

entered; in a state, it may be added, that bordered on hysterics, and

with the tail wagging the dog more violently than ever. It was seven

hours from the time he had been missed, and no light was ever thrown on

how he had accomplished the journey.

A dog's memory is proverbial. There is ample reason for believing that

many dogs, when once they have smelt your hand, never forget you. But

they also often appear to make mental notes of what they see, and to

retain these in their minds. A retriever that has worked long on an

estate will be found to know the position of almost every gate and stile

in every field, and will use his knowledge instantly as occasions arise.

He equally appears to know the rides of the woods within his beat, and

where they lead. In other words, he has, in hunting parlance, an eye for

country; and here is an instance from Daniel's life by way of

illustration.

To reach a neighbouring village on one occasion, the writer used a

tricycle. There was only one road to this village, distant five miles,

and this was bounded on one side by woods and on the other by the river

Thames, which it was necessary to cross at the outset. Here and there

between the road and the river were houses, the gardens and grounds of

which were surrounded by walls and fencing extending to the river-banks.

The tow-path was on the further side. It chanced that after three miles

had been traversed, another tricycle caught up the writer and passed him.

Dan was ahead, mistook this machine for his own, and went on out of

sight. The weather looking threatening, the writer decided to return

home, feeling confident that the dog would discover his mistake and

follow. A bicycle now overtook the writer, the rider of which, in answer

to inquiries, said that he had seen an Irish terrier entering the village

he had left, three miles back, cantering in front of a tricycle. There

was nothing to be done but to go leisurely home, waiting every now and

then to see if the dog was coming, while growing always more and more

uneasy at his non-appearance. At last the home was reached--and on the

front-door mat sat Daniel!

The dog was perfectly dry, and had still the dust of the road on him. He

could not therefore have swum the river; moreover, he had no taste for

water. Equally, he had not come along the only road; while it was

impossible for him to have travelled through the woods or along the land

lying between the road and the river. There was only one solution of the

difficulty, and this was undoubtedly correct. In his walks along the

hills the dog must have noticed a railway in the valley and its bridge

across the river. He had certainly never been along this railway or over

this bridge. But he remembered its existence when he was lost, made his

way to it, got over the river without the necessity of swimming, and

reached home across country in time to meet his master, and with an

expression on his face of, "Well--what do you say to that?"

One more story of him must be given, showing his extraordinary sagacity

as well as his determination. When he had set his mind on anything, brick

walls were well-nigh powerless to stop him. He obeyed one man, if he were

by; in his absence, he acted solely in furtherance of the plans he had in

mind, and always with a knowing expression on his face.

He was paying a visit in the West of England, and had quickly found his

way about. One day at luncheon some one was rash enough to remark in

Dan's hearing that the carriage was going out. To run with the carriage

was strictly forbidden, and this Dan never failed to resent, as he did

also being shut up before the carriage came round. "Carriage" was one of

the thirty-eight words with which he was intimately acquainted, and when

he heard it used on this occasion he may have made mental notes

concerning plans to which he vowed he would be no party. However this may

have been, shortly before the hour arrived for the carriage to start Dan

could nowhere be found.

The road leading from the house branched into three at the end of about a

mile; and, as this point opened to view on the afternoon in question, a

yellow figure was seen to be standing there motionless, evidently waiting

to see which of the three ways the carriage would take. Needless to say

it was Dan, and that of course he had his run.

But an end must be made of chronicling the further remarkable

achievements of this wholly remarkable dog--his sage comments as he grew

older, his faithful discharge of his duties as he roamed the passages at

night, his intense love of sport and his deeds in that field in spite of

his being hopelessly gun-shy, his large heart, and those beautiful

manners which he still made pathetic efforts to show, even when he moved

with great difficulty and was both deaf and almost blind. He was just a

high-bred gentleman; and he had about him something of the courtesy of

the old school, which will still be discernible in some dogs when we have

finally and altogether lost the art ourselves.

Daniel was now growing old, if indeed he had not already done so. It was

obvious that he could not last much longer--perhaps a year; not more--and

it was necessary, therefore, to find an understudy. Irish terriers had

been a part of the household for many years. Yet another must be

discovered, though, as all agreed, there could never be another like Dan.

Thus it came about that inquiries were made in likely quarters, and a

letter was despatched to one who could be trusted, and who was known the

country over for the dogs he owned.

V

"Yes," came the answer; "I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an

old dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but

the one I speak of is a _good_ dog, with good manners and a very gentle

disposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs,

but you shall have this one for ---- guineas, and I will send him along

any day that may suit you.

"I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as

Murphy."

Two days later a dog's travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a

little country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer.

Lying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that

had to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror

was he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the

difficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the

station with him.

At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy,

when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon

his feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house

was reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of

good food.

And this poor little abject was Murphy!--Murphy, the dog with the

pedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a

standstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel,

and that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company.

If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean

sweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a

happy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A

sorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a

playmate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.

"Murphy!"--Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or

eat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he

hugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards and

forwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left

clear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.

Presently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: "Oh, you

poor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can't keep a dog like that--it

is impossible!"

Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him,

and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were

friends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner

of the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near.

What did it all mean?

Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in

truth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the

lower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another,

till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had

rarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was

the "new dog," as he had already come to be called, for he surely was not

worthy of a name.

A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though

with the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing

was definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog

would almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came,

in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in

something serious.

"'Give a dog a bad name...' We all know the rest. To return this dog is

for him almost certainly to be shot--at least, I wouldn't give a penny

for his life."

Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with

his eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing,

and went his way, voting the house to be upside down.

That day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and a

walk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company,

for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following

matters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are

down to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the

unlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably

strange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with

incidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not

shall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also

which "he seemeth to have." So be it. No doubt, in the majority of

instances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such

things come hard.

The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, part

studio, and part a good many other things. A large picture--the canvas

measured six feet--was being worked upon on this second morning after the

young dog's arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that

an accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The

easel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things

into limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the

unfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a

mixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To

add to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from

various parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged;

and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been

killed. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange

proceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was

frightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore

gone from bad to worse.

There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was

judged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would

assuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done

was to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared.

Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not

whimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now

occurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and,

unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog,

reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had

furthermore been generated--a fact, though unsuspected at the time, that

was to prove the hub round which Murphy's whole future was destined to

revolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really

fail--unless, as Murphy's countrymen might say, the person appealed to

proves heartless.

Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening

contained words to this effect:

"I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent

you the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much

puzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before

writing to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many

breeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I

come across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him.

Even my old dog's presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have

been able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost

doubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been

cruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot,

somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes,

with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for

it. However, we must hope for the best."

To this came answer:

"In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept

your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog

for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me

again then. I assure you the dog is a _good_ dog. Perhaps his

surroundings are strange to him. They must be. The old dog will

help him to come round, I feel sure."

A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy

was on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to

a corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking

of a typewriter--a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.

"Ah, Murphy; you're a nice dog, aren't you?" The dog had gone to the

door, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him.

"I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible," he added; "and I

wanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the

matter, for this is a good dog--a nice dog: I know he is. He'll come all

right. Just please give him time; and then, if you don't like him, send

him back. He is as good a dog--gentle, you know, gentle--as I've bred.

Why, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)--I

refused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will

judge he is well enough in the matter of class."

"Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer."

"Well--I'll tell you. I didn't like the man's face that wanted them;

nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they

go to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey

here, as soon as ever I could get the time. He's a nice dog; a good

dog--I'm sure of it."

"You don't think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account

for his extreme nervousness, do you?"

"Well--I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though,

this morning. These things aren't arrived at in a minute, you know. One

working-man very rarely splits upon another."

Then followed the whole story. "It was cruel--cruel," he jerked out at

the end, finishing with, "I may as well tell you, I never liked the man.

Latterly his work was anyhow--went from bad to worse, and I discharged

him."

There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog

lying between them. The dog's eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant

eyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep

sigh, as much as to say, "It's all quite true--quite true."

If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end

to it now. Here was a dog--a young life--that had once, and not so long

ago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted

fun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one that

had never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his

fate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large

brilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course--inherent nervousness,

probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one

of Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and

claimed the exact opposite.

Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a

man? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it

is not; that the dog is often the better of the two.

How the thoughts raced through the brain!

"Murphy?" It was his new master that called him now.

Perhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence:

_he_, at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got up

hesitatingly and came to his new master's chair, with his ears drooping.

He even suffered himself to be taken into this new master's lap, though

not without great nervousness.

And after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye.

"No, Murphy, we won't part," were the last words he heard as he left the

door; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined ever

to set eyes on Murphy.