Kitabı oku: «The Dogs of Boytown», sayfa 5

CHAPTER VII
SOME OTHER DOGS, INCLUDING RAGS

It was sympathy for Jack Whipple and interest in the sickness and recovery of Remus that resulted in the formation of a sort of freemasonry of dog lovers among the boys of Boy town. It had always been known that some of the boys had dogs, and there had been a good deal of fun with these dogs at different times in the past. But hitherto the dogs had been, in a way, taken for granted, and had lived in a sort of background in the boy life of the town. Suddenly they came to light as important members of the community, and each dog had its boy champion.

While Romulus and Remus were sick, the Whipple boys often had to answer inquiries as to their progress, but Ernest and Jack had been so wrapped up in their own worries that they did not realize the widespread sympathy that had sprung up. They did not know that a dozen other boys each loved a dog much as they loved Romulus and Remus and could understand what it must mean to watch at the bedside of a seriously sick puppy.

But when Romulus was well on the road to perfect health again and Remus was slowly convalescing, the other boy dog lovers of the town began to drop around, sometimes with offerings to be appreciated by dogs, just as neighbors bring in jellies and fruit when a person is recovering from a long illness. Then Ernest and Jack began to realize how many friends they had in Boytown and that they all had a precious possession in common.

Harry Barton came first, with Mike. His manner was subdued and he did not brag. He stepped softly as one would in entering a sick room, and he patted Remus's little head very gently and called him "poor little muttsie." Then came Theron Hammond, though he left his Boston terrier at home because Alert had never had distemper and might catch it. He and the Whipple boys sat for a long time in the stable doorway and speculated about the knowingness of dogs. Monty Hubbard came, too. He left his Irish terrier, Mr. O'Brien, at home because of said Mr. O'Brien's well-known proclivity to fight with anything in the shape of a dog, though Monty was sure he wouldn't hurt two sick puppies. But Herbie Pierson honored Rome by bringing his huge, brindled Great Dane, Hamlet, who regarded the setters with fatherly indulgence and then walked off in his stately manner and crouched like a noble statue beside the front gate.

And last of all came Rags and Jimmie Rogers, of whom I will presently tell you more.

Boytown had always been a great place for dogs. Not only the aristocrats of dogdom, living comfortably in homes with loving masters and mistresses, but all sorts of nondescript dogs, many of whom seemed to be masterless and homeless, though not invariably unhappy. In fact, there were many good citizens of Boytown who did not like dogs and who felt that the canine population of the place was altogether too large.

There were restrictive laws that ought to have reduced this canine population to such dogs as were properly owned and licensed, but the government of Boytown was criticized as being a happy-go-lucky affair a good deal of the time, and it was only when complaints became sufficiently numerous and serious that the town fathers took steps to enforce the laws and abolish what was conceded to be a public nuisance. Then a dog catcher was hired, warnings were posted, and the stray dogs were gathered up and mysteriously disposed of. It was rather a cruel and heart-rending business, if you stopped to think of it, and it would not have been necessary if the authorities had been more uniformly strict in observing the statutes and ordinances, but that was their way.

It was during one of the periods of laxity that a wire-haired terrier appeared from no one knew where. He was not an authentic representative of any of the established breeds; it was quite evident that he had just happened somehow. But he was conspicuous among his miscellaneous black and white and brown and brindled brethren by reason of his superior alertness and intelligence and his never-failing good humor and high spirits. His tramp life had in no way damaged his disposition; he seemed to have been born full of the joy of life. He was about the size of one of Mr. Hartshorn's smaller Airedales and in the main he was not badly formed. But his tail, which had never been docked, hung at a rakish angle to one side and one ear was set higher than the other. His eyes were extraordinarily bright and his wiry coat was a grizzled black, always tousled and generally dirty.

The boys were not long in making this stranger's acquaintance. Indeed, he made the first advances, joining in their sport one day when they were in swimming in the pond over by the brickyard, and mingling his joyous barks with the shrieks of laughter which his antics provoked. He would pick them up on their way to school, or anywhere, and make himself generally companionable, and it was not long before they discovered him to be most precocious in the learning of tricks.

It was not in the nature of things that such a dog should remain forever masterless, but the periodical cleaning up of the dog catcher had begun before anyone had had time to think of him as anything but everybody's dog. It was Jimmie Rogers who saw him seized and thrust unceremoniously into the dog catcher's covered wagon, and it was Jimmie who set out alone to achieve his rescue. Jimmie's people lived on Sharon Street and were not well to do, but somehow Jimmie managed to scrape together the five dollars which he found must be paid before he could establish his claim to ownership.

After that, by common consent, he became Jimmie Rogers's dog. He had already won the name of Rags.

So Jimmie brought his beloved Rags to visit the invalids, and Romulus and Remus looked on with big-eyed amazement while Rags was made to sit up, shake hands, roll over, chase his tail, play dead, and sing.

But there was one boy with a dog who did not come to visit the sick, and Ernest and Jack Whipple were not sorry. They did not like Dick Wheaton, and Dick, it was easy to believe, was not one to care whether another boy's dog died or not. He was a good deal of a bully at school, and Jack feared and avoided him. As for the older boys, they found him generally unamiable and those of them who knew the love of dogs were angry with Dick for the way he treated poor little Gyp.

Gyp was a smooth-coated fox terrier and a very good specimen of his breed. He was smart and gamey, but his spirit had nearly been broken by his tyrannical master. Dick seemed unable to resist the temptation to bully everything smaller and weaker than himself, and when there were no small boys or little girls within his reach he indulged his proclivities by teasing his dog.

Gyp, who had never had any other master, did not think of resenting this. He merely endured it as best he might. In fact, there was no more obedient dog in Boytown. It was pitiful to see the way in which he would answer his master's lightest word, as though he lived constantly in the hope of winning favor by his promptness.

Boys often like to tease animals, but they are seldom actually cruel, at least not knowingly so. And when a boy becomes possessed of a dog or a pony of his own, his attitude often undergoes a marked change. But no relenting took place in Dick Wheaton's nature, and the other boys who had learned the lesson of kindness, recognizing his right to do as he chose with his own, could only look on with growing disapproval and dislike.

But all the other dog-owning boys of the town found their friendships growing closer in the warmth of this common interest. During the convalescence of Remus they made Rome a sort of lodge room for the meetings of a new association with an unwritten constitution and no by-laws. They talked much of dogs and it was not long before a number of them were keenly desirous of visiting Willowdale and making the acquaintance of dog-wise Tom Poultice, the rich Mr. Hartshorn, and all the Airedales and white bull terriers.

So Harry Barton made the arrangements and one Saturday in May an expedition was formed to walk to Thornboro and visit Willowdale. There were seven boys in the company and three dogs – Mike, Alert, and Rags. Romulus and Remus were not yet strong enough to make such a trip and it was voted that these three could be counted upon to behave themselves properly. There was a little doubt about Rags, but he was a general favorite and was always given the benefit of any doubt. At the last moment Herbie Pierson and Hamlet joined the excursion.

To these active boys and their dogs the way did not seem too long. In fact, Rags, full of joyful exuberance at this rare treat, dashed about on all sorts of secondary adventures, running three miles to every one traversed. Even sturdy little Alert, in spite of his short legs, took it all as a lark and did not think to be weary until he reached home that afternoon and fell sound asleep on his front door mat.

The arrival of the four canine strangers at Willowdale created a good deal of commotion in the fenced-in runs, and Rags nearly went crazy with the excitement. But Tom Poultice took it all good-naturedly, and when he had got things quieted down a little he took the boys through the kennels and introduced them to the prize dogs.

They were all so absorbed in this pleasant occupation that it was noon before they knew it, and Mrs. Hartshorn came out to invite them all up to the porch for a luncheon. As they were following her up to the house she asked questions about their four dogs, and appeared to take a great interest in Alert especially.

"He's really a very fine little dog," she said. "But who is this?" Rags had come up and thrust his cold nose ingratiatingly into her hand.

"Oh, that's Rags," they said, and interrupted each other with explanations. Mrs. Hartshorn laughed.

"Well, I would hardly know what to call him," she said, "but he is evidently a very popular person. But what's the matter with his back?"

"Oh, it just itches," said Jimmie.

There was a spot on Rags's back that was difficult for him to reach, and it gave him a good deal of trouble, but he had managed to bite a good deal of the hair out of it. Beneath, Mrs. Hartshorn discovered the skin to be in a scabby and unhealthy condition.

"Well," said she, "this shouldn't be neglected. It may be mange, and that's serious. Let's have Tom look at it."

Tom came up at her bidding and examined Rags's back.

"Do you think it's mange, Tom?" asked Mrs. Hartshorn.

"I don't think so," said he. "It looks like heczema, like the Hairedales had last summer. 'E better 'ave some of that medicine, I fancy."

"All right," said Mrs. Hartshorn, "I still have some at the house, I think, that I got in case my dogs should need it. Eczema," she explained to the boys, "isn't exactly a skin disease. It is caused by the dog's general condition, and should be treated internally, though if you will rub zinc ointment on that spot it will heal more rapidly. The cure is first a good dose of sulphur and cream of tartar; you can get that in tablet form at the drug store. Then give him the pills I am going to get for you. They are a tonic and ought to fix him up all right."

"Only be sure not to feed him any corn meal," warned Tom.

"That's so," said Mrs. Hartshorn, "especially now that warm weather is coming."

Before the boys left that afternoon she gave Jimmie half a dozen soft pills and also a prescription for more. It read, "Sulphate of quinine, 1 grain; sulphate of iron, 2 grains; extract of hyoscyamus, 1 grain; with enough extract of taraxacum and glycerine to make a pill." It might be added that Jimmie used this medicine faithfully and the sore, itching spot at length disappeared from Rags's back.

Meanwhile the boys had arranged themselves expectantly on the front porch and the maid presently appeared with plates, napkins, sandwiches, crullers, and lemonade. Mrs. Hartshorn was a charming hostess and the boys waxed merry over their luncheon. Great piles of sandwiches disappeared as if by magic, and then there was chocolate ice cream and sponge cake. The dogs lay eying their masters enviously, all except the incorrigible Rags. He sat up and begged constantly, and even Mrs. Hartshorn could not resist the temptation to toss him a morsel now and then, which he caught with great deftness.

Just as they were finishing, Mr. Hartshorn drove up in his car.

"What have we here?" he cried. "An orphan asylum or a dog show?"

He got out of his car and ascended the steps, demanding his share of the luncheon. Those of the boys who had not already met him were introduced. Then he asked to be made acquainted with the dogs.

"What do you think of them?" asked Herbie Pierson, who was very proud of his imposing Great Dane.

"I'll tell you after I've partaken of a little nourishment," said Mr. Hartshorn. "You can't expect a man to talk learnedly on an empty stomach, can you?"

He proceeded to do ample justice to his share of the sandwiches and ice cream, while a jolly conversation was kept up, even the shyer boys entering in at last.

"Now," said Mr. Hartshorn, as he finished his last spoonful, "let's have a look at that Great Dane."

He stepped down from the porch and approached Hamlet, who submitted to his caress with dignity. Then Mr. Hartshorn did strange things to him which brought a look of amazement into his eyes. He pulled back the dog's hind feet and made him stand straight, measured his head with his hands, pulled down his lips, and thumped his ribs.

"A pretty good dog," said Mr. Hartshorn. "A trifle off in the shoulders, perhaps, and a bit cow-hocked, but he has a good head. Ever show him?"

"No, sir," said Herbie.

"Well, you ought to. We'll see about that some time."

"Won't you tell us something about Great Danes and other dogs, Mr. Hartshorn?" asked Harry Barton. "Things like you told us about the terriers the other day."

"Why," said he, "I thought I must have given you such a dose of it the other time that you would want to run away from any more."

"Oh, no, sir," said Ernest Whipple. "We thought it was very interesting. We've talked it over a lot since, and we want to know about all the other kinds of dogs, too. All the boys do."

"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "you never can tell what a boy will like, I guess. If you had to learn all that in school, I'll bet you'd hate it. But I don't want to overdo it. I'll tell you about just a few this time."

The boys crowded around him expectantly as he sat down again on the porch.

"The Great Dane," he began, "though once a hunting dog, a boarhound, is now classed among the non-sporting breeds, and I'll tell you something about those. They include the very biggest dogs – the mastiff, the St. Bernard, the Newfoundland, and the Great Dane. The smaller ones are the English bulldog, the French bulldog, the chow chow, the poodle, the Dalmatian, and the schipperke. The collies and other sheepdogs are also classed with the non-sporting breeds, but I'll save those for another time. Let me get a book or two, so that I'll be sure to get my information correct.

"Now then," he continued, when he had returned with his books, "I'll outline a few facts about each of these breeds, but in order to avoid sounding like a walking catalogue, I am going to omit a good many things like color, size, and weight. These things are very important in distinguishing the breeds, but they aren't very easy to carry in your heads, and you can find them all set down in the dog books. I shall try to tell you only the interesting, picturesque things about each breed's history and character, and you can find all the rest in the books.

"Let's begin with the St. Bernard. He's the biggest of all. Who knows anything about the St. Bernard?"

"There's a piece in the Fourth Reader about them," ventured Theron Hammond. "They used to guide travelers in the Alps and rescue them when they were lost in the snow."

"And there was one named Barry," put in Harry Barton, "who saved the lives of forty people, and they set up a monument of him in Paris."

"Correct," said Mr. Hartshorn. "There's no breed more famed in song and story than the St. Bernard. It was developed long ago by the monks of the Hospice of St. Bernard in Switzerland, who trained their dogs for the purposes you have mentioned. So many of them were lost, however, that the breed got into a bad way a hundred years ago and had to be brought back by crossing with the Newfoundland and other breeds. As I said, it is one of the largest breeds, sometimes weighing as much as two hundred pounds – more than most men."

"Are there some good St. Bernard stories?" asked Jack Whipple, who preferred anecdotes to descriptive particulars.

"A lot of them," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but there seems to be a good deal of sameness about them. They tell of the saving of Alpine travelers and shepherds, lost in snowstorms or caught in crevasses in glaciers. Some of them are very thrilling. The best story I ever read about a St. Bernard, however, had nothing to do with mountaineering.

"This dog was the beloved friend and constant companion of the Count of Monte Veccios, a Venetian nobleman. Now it became very necessary to the Count that he should obtain certain favors from General Morosini, who was somewhat difficult of approach, in spite of the fact that he was in much the same position himself. In order to gain his own ends, the General had arranged in his palace a gorgeous banquet in honor of the Doge of Venice, from whom he hoped to gain important concessions, and he had caused his great banquet table to be laden with gold and silver plate and much fine Venetian glass.

"The Count, hearing of these preparations, screwed up his courage and called on General Morosini. He praised to the skies the table appointments, which pleased the General, but as soon as he began to plead his own cause, the General became cold and unyielding and begged the Count to cease annoying him about these petty matters. As the Count left the General's palace, he turned to his faithful dog, with tears in his eyes, and said, 'You see, my friend, how badly I am used.'

"The St. Bernard was greatly affected by this, and he formed in his own mind a plan of revenge, since it was beyond his powers to secure justice. Unobserved, he stole back into the General's palace, and just as the Doge was arriving with his retinue, the dog seized the corner of the tablecloth in his mouth and dashed out of the house, upsetting the entire banquet and smashing most of the valuable glassware. I don't believe there is any moral to that story, but perhaps that won't spoil it for you.

"I don't believe I have any mastiff stories," continued Mr. Hartshorn, "but that breed must be mentioned in passing, as it is one of the very old and very famous breeds of England. The mastiff used to be popular here thirty years ago, but we seldom see any now, and sometimes I fear the breed is dying out. It's too bad, for he was a fine, powerful dog, brave and wise.

"Another fine dog that has gone out of fashion is the Newfoundland. There are still some good ones in England, but very few here. I suppose the Newfoundland has more rescues of drowning persons to his credit than any other breed, and it's a shame to see him go. The breed originated on the island of Newfoundland a hundred years ago, and you will still see a dog's head on the Newfoundland postage stamps.

"The Newfoundland has a waterproof coat and is a wonderful swimmer, so that a good many of the anecdotes told about dogs of this breed have to do with their exploits in the water. For example, there is one of a man who fell off a narrow foot-bridge into a swift mill stream. The miller's dog promptly dived in and rescued him, and having accomplished this, coolly plunged in again to save the man's hat that was just about to be swept over the dam. There are several amusing stories told of Newfoundlands dragging bathers to shore, quite against their wills, because the dogs fancied they were in danger.

"A naval lieutenant owned a canary bird and a Newfoundland dog. While they were cruising in the Mediterranean, the bird escaped from the cabin and, flying out to sea, became weighted down with the spray and dropped into the water. The dog leaped overboard, and when he was hauled up on deck again, he dropped the bird out of his mouth, quite uninjured. Another naval officer who owned a Newfoundland was drowned when his ship was sunk near Liverpool. The faithful dog swam about over the spot for three days and three nights, searching vainly for his master, before he would allow himself to be brought exhausted to land.

"Friendships between two dogs are very rare, but instances have been recorded, and in most of these a Newfoundland figures. At Donaghadee there was once a mastiff and a Newfoundland who were, for some reason, bitter enemies, and as both were powerful dogs, it was desirable to keep them apart. One day, however, the mastiff attacked the Newfoundland on the pier, and a terrific fight ensued. At length both dogs fell into the water and loosed their holds. The Newfoundland was soon on dry land, but the mastiff was a poor swimmer and appeared in danger of drowning. The Newfoundland, observing the plight of his recent antagonist, plunged in again and brought him to shore, after which the two dogs were the closest friends. Another Newfoundland at Cork became so annoyed by a small, troublesome cur, that at last he took him in his mouth and dropped him into the water. When the small dog was nearly drowned the Newfoundland rescued him, and was never annoyed by him again.

"But the Newfoundland has been the means of saving not merely drowning persons. In 1841 a laborer named Rake in the parish of Botley, near Southampton, in England, was buried in a gravel pit with two ribs broken. He was helpless and would undoubtedly have died there if his employer's Newfoundland dog had not dug him out.

"William Youatt, who wrote two or three of the dog books in my library, tells of an experience he once had with a friend's Newfoundland dog named Carlo. Youatt and the friend and Carlo parted on the road to Kingston, the dog and his master turning off toward Wandsworth. Soon afterward Youatt was accosted by ruffians. He never knew what made Carlo come back to him, but the dog appeared at the critical moment and drove the men away. Carlo escorted Youatt to a safe place, and then, in the author's quaint words, 'with many a mutual and honest greeting we parted, and he bounded away to overtake his rightful owner.'

"The Newfoundland has always been famous as the protector of children, and this is illustrated by an amusing story told of a Newfoundland that was owned by the chief engineer on H. M. S. Buffalo. The incident took place on an evening in 1858 at the Woolwich theater in London. In the third act of the play, 'Jessie Vere,' there was a violent struggle over the possession of a child. The dog, who had sneaked into the theater behind his master, flew to the rescue across the footlights, much to the consternation of all concerned."

"My!" said Ernest Whipple, "there are certainly a fine lot of stories about Newfoundlands. Are they all true?"

"Well," smiled Mr. Hartshorn, "I can't vouch for them all, but I believe that most of them are founded on fact, and some of them are undoubtedly quite true. Now let's see what the next dog is.

"The Great Dane is at the present time the most popular of the very large dogs. As you can see by looking at Hamlet, he is a powerful, graceful animal. The breed was used in Germany, I don't know how long ago, for hunting the wild boar and was introduced into England in the '80's as the German boarhound. You can see from this one what kind of dog it is. The ears are commonly cropped in this country, but in 1895 the practice was abolished in England for all breeds. I hope some day it will be abolished here. The fanciers think cropping makes the dog look smarter, but it's a silly, unnatural thing to do, when you come to think of it. I wish I didn't have to do it with my bull terriers, but they would never take prizes with long ears. I don't remember any Great Dane stories.

"Now we come to the smaller ones. Mike here is a very good English bulldog, though not so extreme a type as some of them. This breed, like the mastiff, is of British origin, and probably came from the same ancestry. He was trained for bull baiting and later for pit fighting. Tramps and other people are afraid of bulldogs because of their frightful appearance, but as you can see, if you know Mike, they are often as gentle as lambs.

"The French bulldog is much smaller and he is different in many respects. He has big bat ears, for one thing. The chow chow is an interesting dog that comes from China. Perhaps you will be amazed when I tell you that this dog was originally bred and fattened by the Chinese to be eaten like pork and mutton. The tastes of the Oriental are certainly peculiar.

"The poodle, which was originally a German dog but which was developed chiefly in France, used to be better known than he is now. He is supposed to be the cleverest of all dogs and you will usually find poodles in troops of trick dogs."

"It seems to me," said Theron, "that I've read some stories about poodles."

"Yes, there are a number of classic poodle stories," said Mr. Hartshorn, "illustrating the cleverness of the breed. I am sorry to say that poodles have been trained as thieves' dogs, and have been widely used by smugglers on the French frontiers, who trained them to carry lace and other valuable commodities across the border.

"The most famous of these stories is that of the poodle of the Pont Neuf, one of the bridges of Paris. He was owned by a bootblack, who taught him to roll in the mud of the Seine and then run about among the pedestrians on the bridge, dirtying their shoes. This meant more business for the bootblack. An Englishman observed this performance and was much impressed by the dog's smartness in carrying out his part. He offered the bootblack a good price for the poodle and took him back to London with him. But the poodle didn't care for his new life; apparently he had no wish to reform. Somehow or other he managed to stow himself away on a Channel boat and made his way back to Paris, where he returned to his former master and resumed his old occupation."

When the boys had finished laughing over this droll story, Mr. Hartshorn continued:

"The Dalmatian or coach dog comes from eastern Europe, and was bred long ago in Dalmatia, now an Austrian province. He was well known in England by 1800 and was used there as a stable dog and was trained to run with the horses and under the carriages. Here you will see them most often as mascots in fire engine houses. It's queer how fashions run in those things. He is always pure white, evenly covered with round black or brown spots.

"The last of this group is the schipperke. I don't believe you know him, for the breed isn't very common here. The name means 'little skipper,' and the dog has long been a favorite with the captains of Flemish and Dutch canal barges. The schipperke has no tail to wag. There," he concluded, "I guess I've filled you up with enough dog information for this trip. I don't want to overdo it."

"You couldn't overdo it for me," said Ernest Whipple. "Will you tell us about some of the other breeds another day?"

"And tell us more anecdotes?" chimed in Jack.

"I promise," said Mr. Hartshorn.

Ernest, Harry, and Theron were boys of the type that love to collect facts and figures, and they had recently been doing some reading on the subject of the breeds of dogs. They discussed the matter all the way home, becoming quite excited now and then over disputed points.

"Mr. Hartshorn said that Rags didn't belong to any regular breed," said Jimmie Rogers as the boys separated, "but I don't care. There ought to be a breed like him, anyway, 'cause there isn't any better dog anywhere. Rags is good enough for me."

"That's right," cried the other boys in chorus. "You stick to Rags. He's all right, whatever the books say. Good-by, Rags. So long, Jim."