Kitabı oku: «The Dogs of Boytown», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XIII
THE PASSING OF RAGS

Camp Britches was pitched on a Wednesday, and the first week flew by on winged feet. On the second Saturday an event occurred which the boys had been looking forward to with anticipation. Mr. Hartshorn came in his car to spend Sunday at the camp. He brought none of his dogs with him, which was a source of regret, but he was a most welcome visitor, nevertheless.

The boys feared that the appointments of their camp might not be quite elegant enough for a man like Mr. Hartshorn, but he fitted in as though he had been brought up to just that sort of thing and said it was all bully. Frank Stoddard moved out and crowded into the other tent, and a special bed was laid for the visitor. Moses outdid himself in planning his Sunday menu.

Mr. Hartshorn arrived too late to be shown about the lake that day, but supper was a jolly meal and a new interest was added to the campfire hour that night.

Mr. Hartshorn had shown considerable interest in MacTavish and Rover, both of whom he pronounced to be fine dogs, and this led to a general discussion of sheepdogs and their kin.

"I wish you'd tell us something about bob-tails, Mr. Hartshorn," said Elliot Garfield. "I really don't know a thing about them, and I ought to, now I've got one."

"Please do," echoed Ernest Whipple. "You promised you'd tell us about the shepherd breeds sometime."

"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, laughing, "it's pretty near bedtime, anyway, so if I put you to sleep it won't much matter. For my own part, though, I'd rather listen to another of Alfred's stories."

The night was chilly, so he went to his car and got his auto robe, wrapped himself up in it, lighted a cigar, and settled himself comfortably beside the campfire.

"You may have noticed," he began, "that some breeds of dogs seem to possess more individual character than others. Foxhounds, for example, seem to me a good deal alike. That is because they live and work mostly in packs. It is the constant association of a single dog with his master that develops the traits of personality in him. No dogs have had this personality more highly developed than the shepherd breeds, for they have been the shepherds' personal companions, often their only companions, for generations. They are, therefore, most interesting dogs to know and to talk about.

"Of these shepherd breeds the best known is the collie. It is, in fact, one of the most popular and numerous of all the breeds. The modern collie, of which Mac here is a good example, has been developed for beauty, as a show dog and companion rather than a working dog, but he is a direct descendant of the old working collie of the Scottish Highlands, which has been a distinct breed and has been used as a shepherd's dog for centuries. The old working collie or shepherd dog, which is still numerous in Scotland, is a splendid utility animal of great intelligence and initiative, brave as a lion, and trained to guard sheep.

"Though a straight development without much crossing with other breeds, the modern collie is almost a different variety, with a narrower head and muzzle, better pointed ears, and a fuller and finer coat. From the fancier's point of view he is a great improvement on the working dog, and he certainly is handsomer, but in my own humble opinion the fanciers are well-nigh ruining the splendid character of one of the best breeds of dogs ever given to man. For one thing, they have made the head so narrow and snipey, imitating that of the Russian wolfhound, that they have left insufficient room in the skull for all the brains the old collie used to possess. And with this fineness of breeding has come some uncertainty of disposition. The modern collie isn't usually given a chance to learn the things his forefathers knew, so how can we expect the same mental development? Mac, I am glad to say, is not of the extreme type. He would doubtless be beaten in the shows, but he is a better dog, for all that. The older type used to be more common here, but has gradually been driven out by the show type which began to be taken up about 1880.

"The Scotch are great people for dog stories, and a good many of their tales are about collies. Bob, Son of Battle, was an old-fashioned collie. Many of the anecdotes that are told as true stories deal with the breed's wonderful sagacity in caring for sheep. There was the Ettrick Shepherd's famous collie Sirrah, for example. He could undoubtedly do amazing things with sheep. One night something scared the lambs, and they started off for the hills, dividing into three groups. The shepherd called his dog and his assistant and started out in the hope of rounding up at least one of the groups before morning. But the night was dark and the hills a wilderness, and the two men were at last forced to give up the attempt until daylight. At dawn, when they started out again, what was their astonishment to see Sirrah coming in with the lost lambs – not one group only, but the whole flock. How he managed to get one group after the other, no one could ever say, but between midnight and dawn he rounded them all up alone, and not one was missing.

"This herding instinct is very strong in the collie. I once met a modern collie in Des Moines, Iowa, who, because he had no sheep to attend to, busied himself with the chickens, and he would never consider his day's work finished until he had carefully herded all the Rhode Island Reds into one corner of the poultry yard, and all the Plymouth Rocks into another.

"Cases are on record of collies that were taught to steal for their masters, by systematically driving off sheep from neighboring flocks. Many stories deal with the collie's intelligence in fetching help to a man or animal in danger. One collie brought in a flock of half-frozen hens, one by one, that had strayed away from the barnyard and got caught in a blizzard. He carried them tenderly in his mouth, depositing them in a row before the open fire. Another collie brought home a strayed horse by the bridle.

"Shepherd collies are wonderful with the sheep, but the so-called house collie is often more generally wise and adaptable. Hector, a son of Sirrah, was such a dog, and his master, a Mr. Hogg of Ettrick, has told many amusing stories about him. He was always getting into mischief, and Mr. Hogg's mother vowed he should never go visiting with her, for, as she put it, 'he was always fighting with other dogs, singing music, or breeding some uproar or other.' But with all that, he was so intelligent, and seemed to understand so many things in advance, that she used to say, 'I think the beast is no canny.'

"His master's father was one of the church elders of the place, and at one time accepted the post of precentor. He knew only one tune well – 'St. Paul's' – and this he used to give out twice each Sunday. To save the congregation from too great a dose of 'St. Paul's,' the son agreed to relieve him of his duties. But here Hector, accustomed to his master's company on Sundays, objected. He would follow him to church, and when he heard his master's voice inside, he would raise his in the churchyard, much to the amusement of the shepherds and the country lassies. 'Sometimes,' said Mr. Hogg, 'there would be only the two of us joining in the hymn.' The result was that he was forced to resign, and the church was obliged to carry on as best it could with the old precentor and 'St. Paul's.'

"Hector exhibited strange motives and peculiar logic sometimes. He was jealous of the house cat and hated her, but he never touched her or threatened to do her any harm. He merely kept a suspicious eye on her, pointing her as a setter points a bird. He used to join in family prayers, and just before the final 'Amen,' he would leap to his feet and dash madly about, barking loudly. It was easy to understand how he knew when the 'Amen' was approaching, but why the excitement that followed? 'I found out by accident,' wrote Mr. Hogg. 'As we were kneeling there, he thought we were all pointing Pussy, and he wanted to be among the first at the death.'

"Next we come to Rover's breed. Old English sheepdog is its official name, but I think it might better be called the bob-tailed sheepdog to distinguish it from the original smooth sheepdog of England. In many respects it is quite unlike any other breed that comes from England. He was formerly used by English drovers as a cattle dog, but we know little of his history. The bob-tail is the hairiest of the large dogs and one of the most striking of all breeds in appearance. Some of the puppies are born tailless, while others have their tails removed within a few days after birth. The bob-tail is an active, swift, intelligent dog and, as you know if you have watched Rover, very playful and very expressive with his paws. Having no tail to wag, he wags his whole hind quarters to let you know he is pleased or friendly.

"The German shepherd dog has had a remarkable boom since its introduction here in 1912. It is an old breed in Germany and its appearance strongly suggests wolf blood in its ancestry. Originally a shepherd's dog, and still used as such, this breed has shown itself remarkably adaptable to police dog work and has been used in the war more than any other breed. The German shepherd dog is not as gently affectionate as some breeds, but is intelligent, active, alert, brave, and loyal.

"I think I should also speak of the Belgian sheepdog, partly because we are all interested in Belgium these days, and partly because we have begun to get a few of these dogs over here. They are said to be even cleverer police dogs than the Germans. A few have been successfully used over here by police departments of New York and vicinity, and a few fanciers have become interested in the Groenendaele variety and have exhibited specimens in the Westminster show."

"What do police dogs do?" inquired Herbie Pierson.

"I have never seen them at work on the other side," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I understand they are a recognized part of the police service in many cities of France, Austria, Belgium, Holland, and Germany. They are said to do wonderful things, such as rounding up gangs of thieves, trailing criminals, and saving drowning persons, including would-be suicides. In this country their usefulness has been rather the prevention of crime. I have visited the dog squad, in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There they are muzzled and are not expected to attack people. They are taken out at night with the patrolmen and scout around in back yards and anywhere that a burglar or hold-up man might be lurking. The criminals don't like that idea, and they have kept away from that section pretty consistently. I believe these dogs have also found persons freezing in the snow. Airedales have been tried out as well as Belgian and German shepherd dogs. For trailing criminals and finding lost persons, the bloodhound is most commonly used in this country, but I believe some rather remarkable feats of trailing have been accomplished by Belgian sheepdogs at Englewood and Ridgewood, New Jersey."

"They are used mostly as ambulance dogs in the war, aren't they?" asked Harry Barton.

"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn. "You have probably seen pictures of them bringing in a wounded man's helmet, to guide the stretcher bearers to where he lies. They are also used as messengers and for sentry duty in the listening posts, where they are much quicker than the men to detect the approach of a raiding party or an enemy patrol. I could tell you some interesting and thrilling stories that I've heard about these war dogs, but I for one am getting sleepy and I'd like to try out that balsam bed and see if I like it."

There was a little less skylarking that night out of respect to the honored visitor, and so everyone got a good rest and was up betimes in the morning. After breakfast Mr. Hartshorn asked to be shown about the country near the camp, and everybody joined in the expedition, including the dogs.

"I suppose these dogs are all pretty well acquainted with one another now," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I must say it is wonderful how well they get along together. It all shows the power of human companionship. Kennel dogs like mine couldn't stand this sort of thing for an hour. It must be that Rags and Rover keep them all good-natured."

Sunday passed quietly and pleasantly and then came another evening campfire. Some of the boys begged Mr. Hartshorn to tell them about more breeds of dogs, but he laughingly refused.

"Sometime I'll tell you about the hound and greyhound families, but not now. You've had enough," said he. "Besides, I came here to loaf, not to teach a class. Let's have one of Alfred's stories."

"I'm afraid I've told them all," said Alfred. "I've tried to think of more, but I guess there aren't any."

"We've all told our stock of stories," said Horace. "You're the only one with a fresh supply. I guess it's up to you, Mr. Hartshorn."

"The trouble is," said he, "I'm no story teller, but I'll read you something, if you'd like to hear it. I have quite a library of dog literature, both fact and fiction, and I've tried to collect every good thing that has been written about dogs. I selected two stories that are fairly short and brought them along, thinking there might develop a need for entertainment of that kind. Would you like to hear them?"

A shout of unanimous approval went up. Two of the boys ran to Mr. Hartshorn's car for the books, and another brought a lighted lantern and placed it on a box at his elbow. Then they grouped themselves about the fire again and listened with absorbed attention while he read them two of the best short dog stories in his collection – "The Bar Sinister," by Richard Harding Davis, and "Stikeen" by John Muir.

"My! Aren't those fine!" exclaimed Ernest Whipple.

"Haven't you any more?" begged Elliot Garfield.

"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm sorry to say I haven't any more with me, but I shall be glad to lend my books to any of you boys who will promise to return them. They are very precious. I'd like nothing better than to introduce you to the dogs of literature. They're a great lot."

Then he proceeded to tell them something of the best known of these books – "Bob, Son of Battle," Ouida's "A Dog of Flanders," Jack London's stories, and a number of others.

"But I think," he concluded, "that the one I like best of all is the true story of a little Skye terrier named Greyfriars Bobby, one of the most faithful dogs that ever lived."

"Oh, please tell us about him," begged Frank Stoddard.

"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I would only spoil the story. You must read the book for yourselves. It will give you something to do next winter when you can't go camping out, and I can promise you a rare treat."

The next morning Mr. Hartshorn was obliged to leave, and everyone was up bright and early to see him off. He thanked them all for one of the jolliest week-ends he had ever spent, and promised to invite them to a campfire of reminiscence at Willowdale sometime. Then he got into his car and started the motor.

I presume he had never taken part in so boisterous a departure. The rough woods road was difficult enough to drive in at best, and the boys and dogs crowded about the car, shouting and barking their farewells. In spite of all Alfred and Horace could do, some of the more venturesome jumped upon the running boards and rode a little way, while the dogs, catching the spirit of excitement, dashed about in front and everywhere. Alfred and Horace rushed in to quiet the confusion, but before they could get the boys and dogs in hand a sharp yelp of pain sounded and poor old Rags lay, a helpless, pathetic figure, in the wheel rut behind the car.

No one knew, in the confusion, just how it had happened. Mr. Hartshorn had been driving as slowly and carefully as he could under difficulties. A moment before Rags had been barking riotously and leaping at the hand of his master who stood perched precariously on the running board. Now he lay, mute and motionless, all the joy gone out of him, his eyes raised in dumb pleading to his master's face.

A sudden hush fell over the noisy crowd. Even the dogs seemed to know that something dreadful had happened. Mr. Hartshorn stopped his car and leaped out. Jimmie Rogers was kneeling on the ground beside his beloved dog, his face very white, and Rags was feebly trying to lick his master's hand.

Jimmie did not weep or cry out, but when Mr. Hartshorn came up, there was a pleading look in the eyes he lifted to the man's face which was much like the look in the eyes of the dog. Jimmie did not ask any questions. He only moved over a little while Mr. Hartshorn leaned over and tenderly felt of poor Rags's broken body.

"I must have gone square over him with both wheels," said he. "Poor little Rags! I wouldn't have done it, old boy, if I'd seen you. You know that, don't you?"

The dog's forgiving tongue gave him his answer. Mr. Hartshorn did not scold the boys, but they all knew they had been to blame, and no amount of scolding could have made them feel any more remorseful. They stood about in silent shame and dread. The irrepressible Mr. O'Brien trotted up to see what it was all about, sniffed at Rags, and then walked slowly away, raising questioning eyes to his master's face.

When Mr. Hartshorn arose he was winking very hard and biting his lip.

"Is he much hurt, sir?" asked Horace.

"I'm afraid so," said he. "We must get him away at once. Jump into the car, Jimmie, and come along with me."

He made a soft bed of the auto robe on the floor of the car, lifted Rags tenderly in his arms, and laid him on it.

"Watch him, and keep him as comfortable as possible," he directed Jimmie.

That was all that was said, and the car started off again, leaving grief and woe at Camp Britches.

Mr. Hartshorn lost no time in getting back to Boytown, though he was careful not to subject the suffering dog to the pain of rough riding. At Boytown he jumped out and telegraphed to Bridgeport to command the attendance of the best veterinary surgeon in the state. Then they sped on to Willowdale.

They took Rags out to the little building that was used as a dog hospital and made him as comfortable as they could. Mrs. Hartshorn herself brought him a dish of water which he lapped gratefully. He bore his pain heroically, but he was suffering terribly, and Tom Poultice thought best to administer a merciful opiate. Then he made a thorough examination.

"There's ribs broke," he said, "and I guess 'e's 'urt hinternal."

"Then there's nothing we can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.

Tom shook his head sorrowfully.

After awhile the effects of the drug wore off and Rags opened his eyes. Tom put his hand on the dog's heart and shook his head dubiously.

"I'm afraid 'e's going, sir," said he.

Mr. Hartshorn placed his arm about Jimmie's heaving shoulders and drew him toward the dog, who seemed to be begging for one last caress of his master's hand. Mrs. Hartshorn put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried out.

The surgeon arrived soon after noon, but it was too late. Rags had died in Jimmie's arms.

CHAPTER XIV
THE COMING OF TATTERS

After the unfortunate episode that resulted in the accident to Rags, it was as though a cloud rested over Camp Britches. There was no heart for merrymaking. And when at last the sad news came of Rags's death, it seemed as though all the joy had gone out of life. If you have never been a boy, you do not know how quickly a mood of hilarious jollity can be followed by one of deep depression. The plan had been to continue in camp for four or five days more, and some of the boys had been begging for a longer extension of the time, but now no one seriously objected when Alfred and Horace proposed breaking camp and going home. Every boy in camp had loved Rags next to his own dog, and even Moses went about in an atmosphere of melancholy.

Sadly they hauled down Jimmie's humorous ensign and pulled up the tent pegs. It seemed like a different crowd of boys from that which had so joyously arrived in the wagons but two short weeks before.

On a sunny hillside half a mile south of the brickyard there grew, at the edge of the woods, a beautiful little grove of dogwoods, which in May was always a fairyland of snowy blossoms that almost seemed to float in the air. In this peaceful spot it was decided to bury the poor, broken body of Rags. I doubt if there has ever been a funeral in Boytown that was attended by more sincere mourners. Harry Barton and Monty Hubbard spent an afternoon, immediately after their return from camp, making a simple little casket of white wood which they stained a cherry color. It did not seem fitting that so gay a little dog as Rags should be laid to rest in a black one. They lined it with soft flannel, and Jimmie himself, trying hard not to cry, placed the stiff little body inside, still wearing the old, worn collar, and nailed down the top. Theron Hammond and Ernest Whipple were appointed to act as bearers.

The Camp Britches boys were not the only ones who joined in that sorrowful little procession to the dogwood grove. Jimmie's mother was there, quietly weeping, for she had loved Rags like another child, and with her were two or three of her neighbors. Mr. Fellowes closed up his store and silently joined them, and there was a little knot of girls with mournful faces, who had also known Rags and loved him. Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn came over from Willowdale and, leaving their car in the town, followed the little casket on foot with the rest.

There was no clergyman present to read Scripture or to pray, but I think the mourners were none the less devout. The whole ceremony, in fact, was carried through in almost utter silence. It had been thought best not to bring dogs who might not behave themselves, but Mike and Hamlet were there, for they could be depended upon, and it seemed fitting that Rags's canine friends as well as his human friends should be represented.

A grave was dug in the sand and the little casket was lowered into it. Beside it Jimmie placed the battered tin dish that Rags had used and a much-chewed ladder rung that had been his favorite plaything. The girls threw in some flowers and then the earth was shoveled in again and the little company returned home.

I hope the loyal soul of Rags was where it could look down and see that his old friends cared and had come to do him honor. At least his life had been a happy one and free from any guile. And he was not soon forgotten. Not long afterward there appeared at the head of the little mound beneath the dogwoods a simple headstone, the gift of Mrs. Hartshorn, and on it were inscribed these words:

HERE LIES RAGS

The Best-Loved Dog in Boytown

For some little time the cloud remained over Boytown and there was little disposition to take any active part in canine affairs. But youthful spirits cannot long remain depressed, and as the autumn days approached, one of the boys of Boytown, at least, discovered a new interest in connection with dog ownership. That was Ernest Whipple.

For some time Sam Bumpus had been talking, somewhat vaguely, of the possibility of testing out the powers of Romulus in the field trials, and Mr. Hartshorn himself had occasionally mentioned this. Ernest subscribed to a popular kennel paper, and early in September he began reading about the All-American trials to be held at Denbigh, North Dakota, and other similar events. The names of famous dogs were mentioned, both pointers and setters, and there was much speculation in the paper as to the prospects of winning. The thing fascinated Ernest, but it was all a bit unintelligible to him. He wanted to learn more about this sport that seemed to be followed by such a large and enthusiastic number of people, and to find out the way of getting Romulus into it. So one day he and Jack took their dogs and walked to Willowdale, for the express purpose of getting the desired information.

Tom Poultice was the first person they encountered, and he confessed himself to be rather ignorant as to the conduct of American field trials.

"I've seen many of them in Hengland," said he, "and a great game it is. Get a bunch of fine bird dogs out in the fields in the fine weather, with a big crowd following them, and maybe a bit of wagering going on be'ind the judges' backs, and the dogs all eager to be after the birds, and every one of them in the pink, and you've got a fine sport, men. The dogs seem to know, too, and they go in for all's in it. But just 'ow they run the trials over 'ere, I can't say. You'd better ask Mr. 'Artshorn. 'E used to own bird dogs once, and I'll warrant 'e's been all through it."

They found Mr. Hartshorn in his den, but he very gladly laid aside the work he was doing and asked good-naturedly what the trouble was now.

"We've come to ask you to tell us about field trials," said Ernest.

"Well, that's a rather big contract," laughed Mr. Hartshorn. "I suppose I could talk about field trials all night. I've seen some thrilling contests in my time. Just what is it you would like to know?"

"We want to know what a field trial is, how it is run, and what the dogs do," said Ernest.

"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "a field trial is more than a mere race. It's a real sport in which all the powers of a bird dog are brought into play. It's a competition on actual game – prairie chickens or quail, usually. The dogs are sent out to find the game and point, with the judges and handlers and the gallery, as the spectators are called, following. In the big trials there are three or more separate events. One is called the Derby stake, for dogs under two years of age. Then there is the All-Age stake, which is the biggest one. Finally there is the Championship stake, for dogs specially qualified, and the winning of that brings with it the highest honors in the bird-dog world.

"The order of running is decided by lot, and the dogs are put down in pairs. They start off after the birds and work for a stated length of time, after which the judges decide which of the two dogs won, the decision being based on speed, form, steadiness, bird-work, and everything else that goes to make up the bird dog's special power. Then these winners are tried together until the best and the second best, called the runner-up, are chosen in each of the stakes. It takes a good dog to win one of these stakes, for he has to run more than once and his work must be consistent. Purses are offered by the clubs as prizes, amounting to several hundred dollars at the big events.

"Occasionally there are other stakes, such as novice stakes and events in which dogs are handled only by their owners. In the big events the great dogs are usually handled by professionals, who take the dogs right down the circuit and win all the prizes they can. The trials begin in September in Manitoba and North Dakota, on prairie chicken, and are followed by big and small events in the Middle Western states, Pennsylvania, and finally in the South. The biggest of all is held in December or January at Grand Junction, Tennessee, every year. Here the All-America Field Trial Club holds its classic event, in which the winner of the Championship stake is pronounced the amateur champion of the United States for one year, winning also a large purse and a handsome silver trophy."

"Have you ever seen one of those trials?" asked Jack.

"Several times," said Mr.Hartshorn. "I have seen some of the most famous pointers and setters that ever lived run at Grand Junction and win their deathless laurels."

"I suppose Romulus wouldn't stand a chance there," said Ernest, a bit wistfully.

"Perhaps not, at first," said Mr.Hartshorn, "though you never can tell. It's a pretty expensive matter, getting a dog ready and putting him through one of those trials, even though the prizes are large. But there are smaller ones, and it is possible to try a dog out nearer home the first time, with less risk and expense. During the spring there are many trials held by local clubs throughout the East."

"Couldn't Romulus be entered in one of those?" asked Ernest.

"I don't know why not," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I'll look it up and let you know. Meanwhile, tell Sam Bumpus what you're up to and have him keep Romulus in shape this winter."

"I suppose Remus couldn't run," said Jack.

"I'm afraid not, my boy," said Mr. Hartshorn, kindly. "Nose is one of the prime requisites, and Remus hasn't the nose, as you know."

"I don't care," said the loyal Jack. "I'd rather win at a bench show, anyway."

When Ernest told Sam Bumpus about the plan, that worthy was much interested. He made a special trip all the way to Willowdale to consult Mr. Hartshorn, and between them they worked out a plan. Sam was enthusiastic now as to the superior abilities of Romulus as a bird dog, and he presently took him in hand for special training to improve his form and the other qualities that count in the trials. Off and on all winter Sam took the dog out, patiently and persistently drilling him. Sometimes Ernest went along and he was amazed by the intelligence and speed which his good dog displayed. When spring came again Sam announced that there was nothing more that he could do to improve the form and capacity of Romulus.

"I'll back him against any bird dog in the state of Connecticut," said he, proudly.

But before I tell how it fared with Romulus at the trials, I have one episode to relate, the only happening of that winter which needs to be recorded. For the rest, the weeks passed without any momentous event, with the boys in whom we are interested growing ever a little older and wiser. And this particular thing was not of great importance, perhaps. It did not greatly affect the boy-and-dog life of Boytown. But it did affect Jimmie Rogers, and Jimmie, since the death of Rags, had been the one lonely, pathetic figure in the group. It would be a shame not to tell of the thing that happened to him.

One day in early December Dick Wheaton appeared on Main Street, dragging a forlorn-looking little dog by a string. He was a smooth-coated dog of the terrier type, a rich chocolate brown in color, with an active body and a good face and head, but anybody could see he was only a mongrel. No one knew where he had come from and Dick did not take the trouble to tell where he had found him.