Kitabı oku: «The Dogs of Boytown», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XVI
THE MASSATUCKET SHOW
During the winter the Willowdale dogs had again won bench-show honors in New York, Boston, and elsewhere, and Mr. Hartshorn and Tom Poultice were now getting some of them in shape for the smaller outdoor shows of the summer season. Several of the boys made a pilgrimage to Thornboro one day early in June and found Tom engaged in combing the soft, puppy hair out of the coat of one of the young Airedales.
"Why do you do that?" asked Elliot Garfield.
"It does seem foolish, doesn't it?" said Tom. "Well, you see a Hairedale is supposed to 'ave a short, stiff coat, and if you put one in the ring with a lot of this soft 'air on him, the judge won't look twice at 'im."
"Are you going to show this one?" asked Ernest Whipple.
"Yep," said Tom. "'E goes to Mineola next week. It'll be his first show. I don't know what his chances are. Mineola usually has a lot of good dogs. It's near New York and it's one of the biggest of the country shows. We usually try out the youngsters and the second-string dogs on these summer shows and keep the best ones for the big winter shows. Then we 'ave a chance to see 'ow they size up. If a dog wins ribbons enough in the summer shows we figure he's qualified for the big ones next winter. Sometimes a dog can win his championship without ever seeing the inside of Madison Square Garden. He has to be shown a lot of times, that's all, and win pretty regular."
"It isn't so hard to win at the summer shows, is it?" asked Theron Hammond.
"Oh, my, no," said Tom. "Sometimes when the classes are small it's a cinch. Take a rare kind of dog and he's apt to 'ave no competition."
"I wonder if any of our dogs would have a chance at one of the summer shows," said Jack, with suppressed eagerness in his voice.
"I don't know why not," Tom responded.
That started the boys thinking and talking, and a week later they trooped out to see Mr. Hartshorn about it. Half the boys in town had decided that they wanted to show their dogs, and Mr. Hartshorn was at first inclined to discourage them all.
"It's quite a job, taking dogs to a show and caring for them there, and it costs something," said he. "You have some good dogs – in fact, they're all fine fellows – but not many of them are of the show type. You would find the competition somewhat different from that in Morton's barn. I don't believe your parents would thank me for encouraging you to enter dogs that haven't a good chance at the ribbons, and I'm sure I would hesitate to be responsible for looking after a gang of you."
"But couldn't a few of the dogs be tried?" asked Jack Whipple.
Mr. Hartshorn looked into the lad's eager, bright eyes and smiled.
"Perhaps," said he. "Let me think it over."
As a matter of fact it was Mr. Hartshorn's desire not to seem to show favoritism that made him speak that way. For his own part he would like nothing better than to see Remus and one or two of the other dogs have a try at the ribbons, and his wife urged him to give them a chance. The outcome of it was that most of the boys were dissuaded, with quiet friendliness, from attempting the useless venture, while five dogs were eventually entered in the show of the Massatucket Kennel Club, to be held at Welden, some fifty miles from Boytown, in July. These five were Romulus, Remus, Alert, Hamlet, and Rover. These Mr. Hartshorn thought would stand the best chance of winning something. The Old English sheepdog was entered under his original name of Darley's Launcelot of Middlesex, and for once Elliot Garfield was proud of the name.
Mr. Hartshorn knew he had quite a handful of boys and dogs to look after, but Mrs. Hartshorn said she would help, while Tom Poultice took sole charge of the half-dozen Willowdale dogs that were also entered.
The Willowdale dogs were shipped ahead in crates, as usual. So was little Alert. The masters of the other four dogs, however, objected to a form of confinement which the dogs couldn't understand, and it was arranged that the boys should take the dogs with them in the baggage car. Theron Hammond courteously offered to accompany Mrs. Hartshorn in the coach and Tom Poultice took an earlier train, so the baggage car party consisted of Romulus, Remus, Hamlet, Rover, Mr. Hartshorn, Ernest and Jack Whipple, Herbie Pierson, and Elliot Garfield. It was fortunate that only half a car-load of baggage was traveling that day, or they might not have been able to crowd in. As it was, they managed to find seats on various boxes and trunks and made themselves fairly comfortable. The dogs, with their masters for company, were content, after the first sense of strangeness had worn off.
"I understand," said Mr. Hartshorn, after the train had started, "that about five hundred dogs are entered, so it ought to be a fairly representative show. It won't be like New York, of course, but you ought to have a chance to see good dogs of most of the well-known breeds. And the dogs at an outdoor show are usually happier and less nervous than if they were cooped up for two or three days in a crowded hall and compelled to spend their nights there. There are really serious objections to the big indoor shows. More danger of spreading distemper and other diseases, too, than at the outdoor shows."
"Do you think we will see any of the famous champions there?" asked Herbie.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I believe some of the crack Sealyhams and wire-haired fox terriers are entered, and there's sure to be a good showing of Boston terriers. Alert will be in fast company.
"The wires are always worth seeing," said he, after a pause. "It was a white bull terrier that won best of all breeds in New York last winter, but during the last half-dozen years wire-haired fox terriers have won two-thirds of the first honors. The breeders seem to have nearly achieved perfection with this variety. Matford Vic, Wireboy of Paignton, Wycollar Boy, and several others have been almost perfect specimens. But you never can tell. Their day may be passing, and for the next few years it may be Airedales or bulldogs, or almost any other breed that will force its way to the top. That's one of the interesting features of the dog-show game. Then sometimes you find all predictions upset, and all the big dogs beaten by a greyhound or an Old English sheepdog. There's always a chance for everybody."
As the train pulled up at a station somewhere along the line a man entered the baggage car with a brace of beagles on a leash. Nice little dogs, they were, with friendly eyes and beautiful faces.
"Is the baggage man here?" asked the man.
"I haven't seen him lately," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Why, yes," said the man. "I'm sending these dogs down to Welden. There'll be someone to call for them there. You look as though you might be bound for that place yourselves, and if you could keep an eye on these dogs it would be a great favor."
"We'll do so with pleasure," said Mr. Hartshorn.
"What are their names?" asked Ernest.
"Tippecanoe and Tyler Too," he answered. "I'm entering them as singles and as a brace, and I think I stand a pretty good show."
The baggage man came along, and by the time the owner of the beagles had arranged for their shipment the train was ready to start again.
"It's lucky you were here to take them," said the man, "or I shouldn't have been able to send them this way. Good-by and good luck."
"Good-by," they shouted, and proceeded to get acquainted with the beagles.
"They're like small hounds, aren't they?" said Jack.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn, "they are really hounds."
"Oh," said Ernest, "that makes me think. You never told us about the hound breeds, and you said you would sometime. Couldn't you do it now?"
"Let's see," said Mr. Hartshorn, opening his grip. "Ah, yes, here it is." He took out a small paper-covered book containing the standards of the different breeds. "I always mean to take this with me to the shows. Without my books I can't always remember the facts, but with the help of this I guess I can make out.
"Now there still remain the hound and greyhound families to be covered. They are both hounds, in a way, but they have been distinct for centuries. They are both very old types of dogs.
"We will begin with the bloodhound because he's the biggest. There are a lot of people who have got their ideas about the bloodhound from 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and there are places where you aren't allowed to keep a bloodhound because the breed is supposed to be so dangerous and ferocious. But that is a great injustice. The true English bloodhound is not the mongrel beast that was used in slavery days, but is a finely developed and reliable dog. Contrary to the general belief, the modern bloodhound is not ferocious, but gentle and affectionate, almost shy. He is a wonderful trailer and has often been successfully used to find both criminals and lost persons, but he does not attack them when he finds them.
"The otter hound is an English dog not common with us. He has a unique appearance, something like a bloodhound in a rough coat, with a face not unlike that of an Airedale terrier or a wire-haired pointing griffon. He is a steady and methodical hunter, sure on the trail, a strong swimmer, brave, patient, and affectionate.
"The foxhound is the most popular sporting dog of England, his history being bound up with that of British hunting. I guess you know what a foxhound looks like. The American Kennel Club recognizes two separate classes of foxhounds, the English and the American. The latter is, of course, native bred, and is somewhat smaller and lighter in bone than the English hound. The so-called American coon-hound is a dog of the foxhound type and of foxhound origin, bred carelessly as to type, but trained to hunt the raccoon and opossum.
"The name harrier was first given somewhat indiscriminately to all English hunting hounds before the foxhound was highly developed. Later the harrier was developed as a separate breed for hunting hares. It is now rare in England and there are almost no harriers in the United States. The beagle is like a smaller, finer foxhound, and has the same ancestry. He is a good, all-round sporting dog, and a good-looking fellow, as you see, with a solid build, a rugged appearance, and a fine face.
"The dachshund (don't call it dash-hund) is a canine dwarf best known for his absurdly disproportionate appearance, but he is a most attractive, serviceable little dog. He was evolved long ago from the hounds of Germany for the special work of hunting the badger. His bent forelegs and queer proportions are really deformities scientifically bred. The dachshund has a wonderful nose and is a good worker with foxes as well as with ground animals, though his peculiar build best fits him for the latter. He is a clean, companionable house dog, affectionate and spirited. The basset is a short-legged French hound resembling the German dachshund, to which it is doubtless related. We are not familiar with the breed in this country. It looks like a large dachshund with a bloodhound head."
"Do you know any good hound stories?" asked Jack, who was fondling the long, velvety ears of the two beagles.
"Not many," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Most of the foxhound stories I have heard have illustrated the sagacity and cleverness of the fox rather than that of the hound. There are also one or two stories that show that the hound has a strong homing instinct like that of some of the other breeds. The only foxhound anecdote of an amusing nature that I recall is told of one that was owned by a strict Roman Catholic. Whenever Lent arrived, this dog always ran away and paid a round of visits on Protestant acquaintances until Easter ushered in a period of more varied menus at home. This hound was not trained with a pack but was kept as a single pet, which accounts for his marked personality, more like that of a terrier than of a hound.
"I have read a number of accounts in the newspapers describing rescues by bloodhounds. I remember one was about a Brooklyn girl who wandered away from a hotel and was lost on a mountain in Vermont. A famous bloodhound was brought over from Fairhaven and was allowed to smell of a handkerchief belonging to the girl. He took up her trail at the village store and followed it along roads where horses and automobiles had been, through two other villages, and into the woods, and he at last found the girl on the verge of exhaustion far up the mountainside.
"Another bloodhound in California found a lost child at the edge of a cliff in a dense fog and drew him back from the precipice just in time. Most of the bloodhound stories are of that nature, though there are some that have to do with the trailing of criminals.
"One of the classic stories of literature is that of the hound of Montargis. He may have been a St. Hubert hound, or one of the other French hounds, though I have always suspected that he may have been a mâtin or dog of the Great Dane type. But the breed is a matter of minor importance. The main features of the story are somewhat as follows:
"There were once two officers of the King's bodyguard in France named Macaire and Montdidier. Fast friends at first, they became bitter enemies and rivals, and one day in the Forest of Bondi, near Paris, after a violent quarrel, Macaire drew his sword and slew Montdidier and buried his body in the woods.
"Now Montdidier owned a faithful hound who came to search for him. He traced him to the grave and there he remained until he was nearly famished. The poets would have us believe that the dog reached the conclusion that his master had been slain, that he discovered the scent of the murderer, and that he set out in quest of vengeance. At any rate, he went to the home of a friend of his dead master's and was given food. He attached himself to this household but went often to the grave.
"Of course, Montdidier's comrades soon missed him and his absence was reported to Charles V, the King. Foul play was suspected and the King ordered an investigation, but no evidence was forthcoming. Meanwhile Montdidier's friend had also become suspicious and one day he followed the hound to the grave. Observing the dog's actions, he surmised what must be there. He reported the matter to the King who had the body exhumed and discovered marks of violence.
"On several occasions after that the hound attempted to attack Macaire but was prevented from doing him injury. He was entirely peaceable toward everybody else, so that these circumstances were noticed. Guardsmen remembered that Macaire and Montdidier had quarreled and suspicion fastened itself upon Macaire. The King was told of all this and he himself observed the actions of the hound when he was brought near his master's murderer.
"In those days it was sometimes the custom for judges to settle a dispute by ordering the contestants to fight a duel. King Charles decided to adopt this method in an effort to determine whether or not Macaire was guilty, and he ordered a trial combat to take place between the man and the dog at the Château of Montargis on the Isle of Notre Dame, Paris. The man was given a stout cudgel as his only weapon, while the dog was provided with an empty cask into which he might retreat if too hard pressed.
"The battle was a terrible one, Macaire fighting for his life and the dog to revenge his dead master. The hound paid no heed to the blows that were rained upon him, but attacked blindly. At last he got a firm grip on the man's throat and hung on. Macaire, weakening and terrified, begged to be rescued and confessed his guilt. The dog was dragged away at last and the gallows robbed him of his revenge."
"Whew!" exclaimed Herbie Pierson. "Some story! Got any more like that, Mr. Hartshorn?"
"Half a dozen of them," replied Mr. Hartshorn with a laugh, "but they'll have to wait till another time, as I believe we are nearing our destination. For the same reason I must postpone telling you about the dogs of the greyhound family. Here we are, boys."
Tom Poultice was waiting for them at the Welden station and so was the man who had come for the two beagles. Under Tom's guidance they walked out to the fair grounds, which were only a mile away. This was to be the scene of the show, and there were already a number of dogs and crates about.
"I've arranged to stay out 'ere," said Tom. "There's an 'ouse where I can sleep, and I can look after all the dogs."
They looked around the grounds a bit. Mr. Hartshorn found the superintendent of the show and had a few words with him, and then they all returned to town, leaving the dogs in Tom's care. They were all well acquainted with him and did not feel that they were being left among total strangers.
They registered at the hotel, which they found to be overcrowded. An extra cot was placed in one of the rooms, and Ernest, Jack, and Elliot were assigned to it. They did not consider the situation to be any hardship. They enjoyed a good dinner in the dining-room and then gathered in Mr. Hartshorn's room for a talk.
After discussing dog shows some more and speculating as to the outcome of the morrow's contests. Ernest, whose thirst for dog learning was insatiable, reminded Mr. Hartshorn of his promise to tell them about the breeds of the greyhound family.
"The greyhound proper," said he, "is of course the first to be considered. It is perhaps the oldest distinct type of dog now in existence. Likenesses of greyhounds are to be seen in relics of Assyrian, Egyptian, Greek, and Roman sculpture, and the type has altered surprisingly little in seven thousand years. It was developed for great speed from the first and was used in the chase. Unlike the other hounds, the dogs of the greyhound family hunt by sight and not by scent.
"The whippet is merely a smaller greyhound, but has been bred as a separate variety for upward of a century. On a short course the whippet is faster than a racehorse, covering the usual 200 yards in about 12 seconds. Whippet racing as a sport has never taken hold in America and we have comparatively few of the breed here. You have already been told about the Italian greyhound. It belongs to the greyhound family but is classed as a toy.
"Although speed is the thing for which the greyhound is most famous, stories have been told which illustrate the breed's fidelity and sagacity when his master makes a comrade of him. I will tell you one of these tales. A French officer named St. Leger was imprisoned in Vincennes, near Paris, during the wars of St. Bartholomew. He had a female greyhound that was his dearest friend and he asked to have her brought to him in prison. This request was denied and the dog was sent back to St. Leger's home in the Rue des Lions St. Paul. She would not remain there, however, and at the first opportunity she returned to the prison and barked outside the walls. When she came under her master's window he tossed a piece of bread out to her, and in this way she discovered where he was.
"She contrived to visit him every day, and incidentally she won the admiration and affection of one of the jailers, who smuggled her in occasionally to see her master. St. Leger was at last released, but his health was broken and in six months he died. The dog grieved for him and would not be comforted by any of the members of the household. At last she ran away and attached herself to the jailer who had befriended her and her master, and with him she lived happily till the day of her death.
"Now we come to one of the grandest breeds of all – the Irish wolfhound. It is a breed of great antiquity and of great size and power. The Latin writer Pliny speaks of it as canis graius Hibernicus, and in Ireland it was known as sagh clium or wolf dog. For in ancient Ireland there were huge wolves and also enormous elk, and the great dogs were used to hunt them. These hounds were even used in battle in the old days of the Irish kings.
"Two classic stories are told of the Irish wolfhound. One is of the hound of Aughrim. There was an Irish knight or officer who had his wolfhound with him at the battle of Aughrim, and together they slew many of the enemy. But at last the master himself was killed. He was stripped and left on the battlefield to be devoured by wolves. But his faithful dog never left him. He remained at his side day and night, feeding on other dead bodies on the battlefield, but allowing neither man nor beast to come near that of his master until nothing was left of it but a pile of whitening bones. Then he was forced to go farther away in search of food, but from July till January he never failed to return to the bones of his master every night. One evening some soldiers crossed the battlefield, and one of them came over to see what manner of beast the wolfhound was. The dog, thinking his master's bones were about to be disturbed, attacked the soldier, who called loudly for help. Another soldier came running up and shot the faithful dog.
"The other story is that of devoted Gelert which you may have heard. Robert Spencer made a poem or ballad of it."
"I've never heard it," said Jack Whipple.
"Nor I," said Elliot Garfield.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "it's a rather tragic story. Put into plain and unadorned prose, it runs something like this: Gelert was an Irish wolfhound of great strength and great intelligence that had been presented by King John in 1205 to Llewelyn the Great, who lived near the base of Snowdon Mountain. Gelert became devoted to his master and at night 'sentinel'd his master's bed,' as the poem has it. By day he hunted with him.
"One day, however, Gelert did not appear at the chase and when Llewelyn came home he was angry with the dog for failing him. He was in that frame of mind when he met Gelert coming out of the chamber of his child. The dog was covered with blood. Llewelyn rushed into the room and discovered the bed overturned, the coverlet stained with gore, and the child missing. He called to the boy but got no response.
"Believing that there was but one interpretation for all this, Llewelyn called Gelert to him and in his wrath thrust his sword through the dog's body. Gelert gave a great cry of anguish that sounded almost human, and then, with his eyes fixed reproachfully on his slayer's face, he died. Then another cry was heard – that of the child, who had been awakened from sleep by the shriek of the dying dog. Llewelyn rushed forward and found the child safe and unscratched in a closet where he had fallen asleep. The father hurried back to the bloody bed, and beneath it he found the dead body of a huge gray wolf which told the whole story. In remorse Llewelyn erected a tomb and chapel to the memory of faithful Gelert and the place is called Beth Gelert to this day."
There was a suspicious moisture about more than one pair of eyes as Mr. Hartshorn finished this narrative, and he hurried on to less tragic matters.
"The Irish wolfhound is to-day a splendid animal," said he, "and the breed deserves to be better known in this country. It has had an interesting history. There was a time when it nearly died out in Ireland, and the modern breed was started with the remnants some fifty years ago, with the help of Great Dane and Scottish deerhound crosses. The new breed was not thoroughly established, however, until the latter part of the last century. As a made breed, so called, it is a remarkable example of what can be accomplished by patient, scientific breeding. The Irish wolfhound is a big, active, sagacious, wonderfully companionable dog, muscular and graceful, and as full of fun as a terrier.
"The Scottish deerhound is similar in most respects to the Irish wolfhound, but is lighter, speedier, and less powerful. They have a common ancestry, though the two breeds were distinct as long ago as the twelfth century. The breed was a favorite with Sir Walter Scott.
"The Russian wolfhound, known in Russia as the borzoi, is one of the most graceful and aristocratic of all the breeds, combining speed, strength, symmetry, and a beautiful coat. He has been used for centuries in Russia for hunting wolves and has been bred as the sporting dog of the aristocracy."
"It makes a dog show a lot more interesting to know something about the different breeds," said Ernest Whipple.
"Of course it does," said Mr. Hartshorn. "And if I am not mistaken, I have told you something about almost every breed that you will ever be likely to see at a dog show or anywhere else."
Soon afterward they separated for the night.
