The Dogs of Boytown
by Walter A. Dyer · English · Gutenberg #41444 · 404,771 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Dogs of Boytown
Author: Walter A. Dyer
Release date: November 23, 2012 [eBook #41444]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOGS OF BOYTOWN ***
Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been
harmonized. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Bold
text has been marked with =equal signs=. The original capitalization
of words has been retained.
[Illustration: Romulus and Remus]
THE DOGS OF BOYTOWN
BY
WALTER A. DYER
Author of "Pierrot, Dog of Belgium," "Gulliver the Great,
and Other Dog Stories," "The Five Babbitts at
Bonnyacres," etc.
[Illustration: Printer's logo]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1918
COPYRIGHT, 1918.
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I SAM BUMPUS AND HIS NAN 1
II SAM'S SHACK 16
III ROMULUS AND REMUS 33
IV IN ROME 47
V THE WILLOWDALE KENNELS 61
VI ANXIOUS DAYS 81
VII SOME OTHER DOGS, INCLUDING RAGS 96
VIII DOG DAYS 120
IX THE TRAINING OF ROMULUS 135
X WILLOWDALE DOGS IN NEW YORK 152
XI THE BOYTOWN DOG SHOW 166
XII CAMP BRITCHES 183
XIII THE PASSING OF RAGS 199
XIV THE COMING OF TATTERS 215
XV ROMULUS AT THE TRIALS 230
XVI THE MASSATUCKET SHOW 245
XVII THE TEST OF REMUS 265
XVIII ON HULSE'S POND 280
XIX EVERY DOG HIS DAY 293
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
ROMULUS AND REMUS _Frontispiece_
ENGLISH SETTER 7
CHOW CHOW 30
ENGLISH BULLDOG 56
WHITE ENGLISH BULL TERRIER 64
AIREDALE TERRIER 70
POMERANIAN 79
PEKINGESE 84
GREAT DANE 98
TOY POODLE 117
IRISH TERRIER 147
BOSTON TERRIER 179
COLLIE 202
BEAGLES 250
OLD ENGLISH SHEEPDOG 271
THE DOGS OF BOYTOWN
CHAPTER I
SAM BUMPUS AND HIS NAN
There are misguided people in this world who profess to believe that
only grown-ups can fully appreciate the beauties of nature. Oh, the
grown-ups talk more about that sort of thing, to be sure, and know how
to say poetic things about winter fields and sunsets that are usually
locked in a boy's heart. But for the fullest appreciation of blue
skies and autumn woods and sandy shores, and the most genuine
enjoyment of broken sunshine on the forest floor, the smell of falling
oak leaves, and the song of the wind in the pines or rustling across
broad, rolling fields, give me a boy every time. I know, for I have
been one.
That is why I am going to begin this story about boys and dogs by
telling of a certain crisp October morning--a Saturday morning when
boyhood enjoys its weekly liberty. There had been frost the night
before and the air was still cool and very clear. It was like drinking
cold water to take long breaths of it. The golden sun was rising
high above the rounded hills to the east and the sunlight turned to
glistening silver the shreds of smoke that drifted lazily up from the
chimneys of Boytown in the little valley a mile or so away.
I must digress for a moment to speak of Boytown. You will not find it
on the map, for that is not its real name. It is not always wise to
call people and places by their real names in a book, and so I have
given this name to the Connecticut town where lived all the boys and
the dogs that I am going to tell about. It was a nice old town, just
about the right size, with a broad main street where the stores and
business buildings were, and in the upper end of which a narrow green
ran down the middle with a row of big elm trees in it. Most of the
people lived on the side streets, some of which ran for quite a
distance up Powder Mill Hill to the west. But most of the pleasant
places in this part of the world lay to the east. The railroad ran
along that side of the town, and beyond it were the brickyards and
Hulse's Pond. If you were in search of adventure, you skirted this
pond, went up over a long, grassy hill, and at length entered the
woods which stretched all the way to Oakdale, broken now and then by
farms and open stretches of hilly meadow or pasture land.
Here in the woods there was much to be seen on this fine October
day. There were squirrels everywhere, busy with the harvesting of
their winter's supply of nuts, and if you were lucky you might catch a
glimpse of a cottontail rabbit disappearing into a thicket, or a
grouse shooting off among the trees with a great whirring of wings.
The autumn foliage was at its finest, the deep green of pine and
hemlock mingling with the crimson of the oaks, the flaming scarlet of
the maples, and the translucent gold of the silvery-stemmed birches.
Above the trees the sky was that soft blue color that you like to lie
on your back and look at, with here and there fleecy little clouds
constantly changing into all sorts of odd and whimsical shapes. From
the branches of a tall pine a flock of sooty crows, alarmed by the
sound of human voices, arose all together and floated off over a
little clearing in company formation, cawing loudly.
If you had been one of those crows, you would have looked down at the
figures of two boys emerging from the woods. One was a slender lad of
about twelve, quite tall for his age, with straight black hair and
bright black eyes. The other, who was perhaps three years younger, was
so plump as almost to deserve the nickname of "Fatty." He had lighter
hair and eyes and there were freckles across the bridge of his not
very prominent nose. Both boys were dressed in their old clothes and
carried white cloth flour bags which already contained a few quarts
of chestnuts. They stood gazing with practised eyes at the tree-tops
around the little clearing.
"There ought to be some here, Jack," said the older boy. "The biggest
trees always grow near the edges."
"They're the easiest to get at, too," responded Jack.
They walked together around the margin of the clearing and at length
located a tree to their liking. With much boosting on the part of
Jack, the older boy at last gained the lower branches and was soon
making the brown nuts rattle down upon the leafy ground.
After they had stripped three or four trees of their treasure, Jack
threw himself upon his back and began squinting up at a hawk sweeping
high up in the blue sky.
"I'm tired, Ernest," he said. "Let's go over to the Cave."
"Oh, it's early yet," replied Ernest, "and we haven't got half a
sackful."
"We have twelve quarts at home," said Jack. "We don't need any more.
Besides, we haven't been to the Cave for two weeks. It rained so hard
last Saturday that it may need cleaning out."
"All right," said Ernest. "Come along."
Jack scrambled to his feet and together they set off into the woods
again. A walk of half a mile or so brought them to a brook which they
followed upstream until they came to a leaky dam of stones and logs
which they had built the previous spring and which held back enough
water to make a small pond above. This they called their Beaver Dam
and Beaver Pond, and in the sandy bank at one side was Trapper's Cave.
Beaver Pond lay just within the edge of the wood, and from the Cave
one's eyes commanded a view of an old, disused pasture, now grown up
to sumacs and blueberry bushes, which stretched up and over a long
hill that seemed to bear the rim of the blue sky on its shoulder. One
could sit unobserved in the mouth of the Cave, quite hidden by the
saplings and undergrowth of the wood's edge, and watch all that went
on outside, with the depths of the dark, mysterious, whispering forest
at one's back.
The Cave itself would hardly have housed a family of real
Cave-Dwellers. It was neither very large nor very skilfully built, but
it amply served the purpose for which it was intended. It was dug out
of the soft sand of the bank. Two boards in the ceiling supported by
two birch props did not entirely prevent the sand from falling in, and
every visit to the Cave was attended by housecleaning. Nevertheless,
it was a delectable rendezvous for adventurers.
At one side was a low bench built of fence boards and at the other a
soap box with a hinged cover, hasp, and padlock, which served as a
treasure chest and which contained, among other things, a hatchet, an
old and not very sharp hunting knife, a dozen potatoes, and a supply
of salt and pepper. At first the boys had attempted to build a
fireplace at the back of the Cave, with a hole cut through the roof to
the surface of the ground above to serve as a chimney, but it proved
unsuccessful, and a circular pile of stones in front, with a rusty
kettle supported on two forked sticks, now served as campfire and cook
stove.
The boys filled the kettle at the little pond, not because they wished
to boil anything, but because it made a fire seem more worth while.
Then they kindled a blaze beneath it, and when there were enough red
coals, they thrust four of the potatoes among them.
"Now for a good feed," said Ernest.
At length, when the potatoes were burned black on the outside, they
pronounced them done and drew them out of the coals. They broke them
open gingerly, for they were very hot, and disclosed the mealy
insides, not at all troubled by the fact that the edible portion was
liberally sprinkled with black specks from the charred skins. Adding
salt and pepper, and using their jackknives as spoons, they proceeded
to eat with a relish which their mother would have found it
difficult to understand.
As they were engaged in this pleasant occupation, Ernest suddenly rose
to his feet and peered out through the saplings.
"What is it?" demanded Jack.
[Illustration: English Setter]
"Sh!" cautioned the older boy. "It's a man. He's coming down the hill.
He's got a gun and a dog with him."
Jack arose and stood on tiptoe beside his brother. Together they
watched the approach of a strange figure--a tall, lanky, raw-boned
individual wearing a rusty old felt hat and with an old corduroy
hunting coat flapping about him. In his hand he carried a
double-barreled shotgun which appeared to be the best-kept thing about
him. Running ahead of him was a beautiful English setter, speckled
white with black markings. Her every motion was swift and graceful as
she ran sniffing from one clump of shrubbery to another. Sometimes the
man would give a peculiar little whistle, and then the dog would pause
and look up, and then dart off to right or to left in obedience to a
wave of the man's arm.
Suddenly the dog stopped and stood rigid as a statue, her tail held
out straight behind, one foreleg raised, and her neck and nose
stretched toward a patch of sheep laurel. The man stealthily
approached while the dog stood perfectly motionless with quivering
nostrils.
They were quite near the boys now. There was a sudden movement in the
sheep laurel, a whir of wings, and four or five birds rose swiftly
into the air and shot off toward the woods.
"Bang!" went the man's gun, and both boys jumped so that they scarcely
noticed a bird fall.
"Bang!" went the other barrel almost immediately, and another bird
fell fluttering to earth. Then the dog broke her point and brought the
birds back to her master in her sensitive mouth.
To tell the truth, the boys were a little frightened at this
gun-fire so close at hand, especially Jack, and they watched anxiously
as the man reloaded his gun. But the birds had disappeared and the man
started off in the direction they had taken. He whistled to his dog,
but a new scent had attracted her attention, and she trotted down
toward the brook and began sniffing the air.
"She smells our potatoes," said Ernest.
Jack forgot his fears in this new interest.
"Let's call her over," said he.
"Come here, sir!" called Ernest, making a kissing noise with his lips.
"Come here!"
The dog lightly leaped the brook and came slowly up the bank toward
the Cave, her tail waving in a friendly manner. Ernest scraped out a
bit of potato and held it out to her. She stood for a moment,
sniffing, as if in doubt. Then she came forward and daintily took the
proffered food. In a few minutes both boys were smoothing the silky
head, looking into the fine eyes, and talking to their visitor.
"Tryin' to steal my dog?"
They had not noticed the man's approach, he had stepped so softly, and
the gruff voice so close beside them startled them.
"Oh, no," protested Ernest, hurriedly. "She--we----"
The man's face was very solemn, but there was a humorous twinkle in
his eyes that somehow made the boys feel easier. The dog placed her
paw on Jack's arm as though begging for more petting.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Ernest, in an effort to be polite.
The man's face broke into many wrinkles and he laughed aloud.
"Don't know but what I will," said he, "if you ain't afraid I'll hurt
your parlor chairs."
It was now the boys' turn to laugh, and the ice was broken. The man
squatted down beside the fire as though glad of a chance to rest, and
the dog stretched herself out at his feet.
"I'm glad you didn't mean to steal her," said the man, "because then I
wouldn't have no one to find birds for me. Then what would I do?"
There seemed to be no answer to this, so Ernest asked him if he had
shot many.
"Five this morning," said the man, and tumbled the pretty dead things
out of his pockets.
"They're quail, aren't they?" asked Ernest, stroking one of them.
"Yep," said he, "Bob-Whites. They're runnin' pretty good this year,
too."
Something in the man's friendly manner inspired a sort of boldness in
young Jack.
"Don't you hate to shoot them?" he asked.
The man looked into Jack's frank brown eyes for a moment and then
moved a little closer.
"Say," he said, "I'll tell you a secret. I s'pose I've shot more birds
and rabbits than any man in this county, if I do say it, and I never
bring down a partridge or kill a chicken that I don't feel sorry for
it. I ain't never got over it and I guess I never shall. But it's the
only thing old Sam Bumpus is good for, I reckon, and it has to be
done. Folks has to eat and I have to make a livin'. I don't do it for
fun, though I don't know any finer thing in this world than trampin'
off 'cross country with a gun and a good dog on a fine mornin'. It's
my business, you see."
"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest. "I'd like that business better than
insurance, I guess. That's what my father is."
"Who is your father?" inquired Sam Bumpus. "You see I'm very
partic'lar who I know."
"He's Mr. Whipple. We're Ernest and Jack Whipple."
"Oh, you live down on Washburn Street?"
Ernest nodded.
"Well, that's all right," said Sam. "I guess you'll pass."
He seemed in no great hurry to be getting on. Taking an old black pipe
from his pocket he filled it from a greasy pouch and lighted it. He
took a few reflective puffs before he spoke again.
"What do you know about dogs?" he asked, abruptly.
"Why--not very much, I guess," confessed Ernest.
"We like them, though," added Jack.
"Well, that's half the game," said Sam. "There's two kinds of people
in this world, them that likes dogs and them that don't, and you can't
never make one kind understand how the other kind feels about it. It
just ain't possible. And if you don't like dogs you can't never know
dogs, and if you don't know dogs you're missin'--well, I can't tell
you how much."
"I've known Nan here," he continued, stroking the setter's head, while
she looked up at him with adoration in her eyes, "I've known Nan for
goin' on seven years, and I learn somethin' new about her every day. I
raised her from a puppy, broke her to birds, and lived with her summer
and winter, and I tell you I never seen a man or a woman that knows
any more than what she does or one that I could trust so far. That's
the thing about a dog; you can trust 'em. There's bad dogs and good
dogs, and no two is just alike, but if you once get a good one, hang
onto him, for you'll never find another friend that'll stick to you
like him."
The man seemed so much in earnest that the boys remained silent for a
time. Then Jack asked, "Can she do tricks?"
"If you mean sit up and roll over and play dead, no," said Sam. "I
don't believe in spoilin' a good bird dog by teachin' 'em things that
don't do 'em no good. But what she don't know about huntin' ain't
worth knowin'. It positively ain't."
For half an hour more Sam Bumpus told the boys of various incidents
that proved the sagacity of Nan and the other dogs he had owned. He
told how once, when a burning log rolled from his fireplace in the
night and set his little house on fire, a pointer named Roger had seen
the flames through the window, had broken his collar, plunged through
the mosquito netting across the window, and had wakened his master by
pulling off the bedclothes and barking.
"If that dog hadn't known how to think and plan, I wouldn't be here
to-day talkin' to you boys."
Suddenly he jumped to his feet.
"That reminds me," said he. "I've been sittin' talkin' here too long.
I've got to be about my business and your folks'll wonder why you
don't come home to dinner. Come, Nan, old girl."
The setter sprang up, yawned, and then stood ready for the next
command. Both boys patted her and then held out their hands to Sam.
"I hope we'll see you again sometime," said Ernest. "We like to hear
you tell about your dogs."
The man's tanned face seemed to soften a little as he shook hands with
the boys.
"Well," said he, "I guess you can see me if you want to. My social
engagements ain't very pressin' just now. I ain't got one of my
business cards with me, but you can just call anywhere in these woods
and ask for Sam Bumpus. The dogs'll know me if the men don't. So long,
boys," and he strode off down the bank with Nan dashing joyously
ahead.
"Good-by, Mr. Bumpus," called Ernest and Jack.
He paused in the act of leaping the brook and looked around, with the
twinkle in his eyes.
"Say," he called back, "if I ever hear you call me that again I'll set
the dog on you. My name's Sam, d'ye hear?" Then he slipped in among
the underbrush and was gone.
Talking animatedly about their new acquaintance and about dogs, the
two boys hastened to lock up their treasure chest and depart.
"Say, Ernest," said Jack, as they started off through the woods with
their bags of chestnuts over their shoulders, "the Cave is a great
place for adventures, isn't it?"
That evening, as the family were gathered in the living-room on
Washburn Street, and Mrs. Whipple was trying to repair the damage
that chestnutting had wrought in a pair of Ernest's stockings, the
boys asked their father if he knew Sam Bumpus.
"Bumpus?" he asked. "Oh, yes, he's that queer fellow that lives all
alone in a shack in the woods off on the Oakdale Road. An odd
character, I guess, from all I hear, but they say he's a wonderful
shot and people take their bird dogs to him to be broken. How did you
hear about him?"
The boys told their story, and then Ernest asked wistfully, "Papa,
when can we have a dog?"
"When your mother says you can," replied Mr. Whipple, with a smile.
Sorrowfully the boys went off to bed, well knowing what that meant.
For Mrs. Whipple was one of the people that Sam Bumpus had spoken
of--the kind that don't like dogs.
CHAPTER II
SAM'S SHACK
The next Saturday was gray and chilly, but the weather did not deter
Ernest and Jack Whipple from starting off early for the woods. They
carried their chestnut bags as a matter of course, but this time the
chestnut trees offered them very little enticement. The ones they knew
best had already been robbed of their nuts, and they soon wearied of a
somewhat profitless search. It was Jack who voiced what was in the
minds of both boys.
"I wish we could run across Sam Bumpus again," he said.
Sam had said they could find him in the woods, but the woods had never
seemed so extensive and it was like hunting for a needle in a
haystack. They arrived at Beaver Pond and the Trapper's Cave without
encountering any sign of the man and his dog.
Chiefly as a matter of habit they built a small fire in front of the
Cave and sat down beside it on their log seat to consider the problem
of finding an elusive hunter in the wide woods. They did not even open
the treasure chest.
"He said anybody could tell us where to find him," said Jack, "but
there's no one to ask. People don't live in the woods, do they?"
Ernest sat pondering. "Well," said he at length, "there's that old
woman that gave us the doughnuts one day. Do you remember? She had a
lot of white hens that went right into her house, and a little dog
named Snider that was so old he could hardly breathe."
"Oh, yes," responded Jack, brightening up. "Where does she live?"
"I don't know exactly," said Ernest, mournfully, "but I think it was
over that way. We might find her if we hunted."
The boys arose, put out their fire carefully, as all good woodsmen
should, and started off through the woods again. They must have
tramped for nearly an hour, but the very uncertainty of the outcome of
their quest gave it a touch of adventure and kept them going. At last,
after following various false clues, they came out unexpectedly and
abruptly into the clearing behind the old woman's house. The cackling
of fowls and the wheezy barking of little old Snider greeted them. As
they approached, the old lady herself appeared in the doorway of her
kitchen, clad in a faded blue dress and leaning on her stick. As soon
as she saw that it was boys her face broke into a smile.
"Come right in," she said, "and I'll get you some cookies."
The boys entered and sat in the kitchen chairs to eat their cookies.
They were anxious to be on their way in search of Sam Bumpus, but
politeness demanded that they linger a few minutes. Ernest inquired
after the health of old Snider. The widow shook her head sadly.
"He's failin'," she replied. "I can see he's failin'. His teeth is all
gone so he can't eat much and he has the azmy pretty bad. It's what us
old folks has to expect, I s'pose, but I don't know what I'll do when
Snider goes. He's all I've got now."
She wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron while the boys
fidgeted in their chairs. They felt sorry for her, but they didn't
know what to say on an occasion like this. Ernest reached down and
patted the little dog's head.
"Poor old Snider," he murmured. Somehow that seemed to comfort the old
lady.
At last Ernest found it possible to ask her if she knew Sam Bumpus.
"Lor', yes," she responded. "Queer old codger, Sam is, but the
best-hearted man in the world. Many a good turn he's done me. He was
here only this mornin' with some bones to make into soup for Snider."
"Where did he go?" inquired Ernest.
"He didn't say where he was goin', but I reckon if you was to go over
to the Poor Farm you could find out. He was headed that way."
The boys had ridden by the Poor Farm on several occasions but had
never visited it, and they felt a slight hesitation about doing so
now, but the woman assured them that the inmates were all quite
harmless and gave them directions for a short cut. Thanking her for
her kindness, and patting Snider good-by, they set off along a rutty
woods road and in a little while came to the Poor Farm. They crossed
an inclosed field where a small drove of hogs were feeding, and went
around to the front of the big white house.
They did not have to inquire for Sam Bumpus, for there he was, as
natural as life, sitting on the steps of the veranda with Nan
stretched out beside him. As the boys turned the corner of the house
he arose with alacrity and held out his hand to them.
"Well, well," he cried in his gruff voice, his face wreathed with
smiles, "this is a sight for sore eyes. Come right up and set down
here. I can't invite you in because this ain't my house. I'm just a
visitor here myself. I have a lot of old cronies here, and besides, I
want to get familiar with the place because I may have to come here to
live myself sometime."
He rattled on so that the boys didn't have a chance to answer. He
led them up on the veranda to an old man who sat in a rocking chair,
bundled up in a blanket, smoking a pipe carved wonderfully in the form
of a stag's head.
"These are my friends Ernest and Jack Whipple," he said to the old
man, "and they like dogs."
At this the old man took his pipe from his mouth with a thin,
trembling hand, looked at them out of pink, watery eyes, smiled, and
nodded his white head.
"This is Captain Tasker," Sam told the boys. "He don't talk much, but
he's forgotten more than you or I ever knew. Some day I'll tell you
about his dog that followed him to war. He's a Civil War veteran, and
he got wounded at Antietam. Show 'em your Grand Army badge, Captain.
See?" he added to the boys. "I told you I was partic'lar who I knew."
Nan got up and stretched herself and looked up at her master
inquiringly.
"Yes, old girl," said Sam, "it's time we was gettin' along." Then,
noticing that the boys looked disappointed, he added, "Come walk a
piece with us, won't you? I'd like to talk with you."
The boys readily acquiesced, and bidding good-by to Captain Tasker,
they set out with Sam along a leafy woods road, with Nan ranging
ahead. All about them the forest beckoned alluringly, and Sam told
them of spots where grouse and quail abounded, or where one might
reasonably expect to "jump" a rabbit.
Arriving at length at the Oakdale Road, Sam and the boys seated
themselves for a little while on a fallen log, while the former
concluded a discourse on bird dogs and hunting.
"Setters," he was saying, "are usually supposed to be the keenest and
pointers the strongest, but in my opinion it all depends on the
partic'lar dog. Nowadays I hear a good deal about the pointer bein'
the best dog, and I've owned some good ones myself. There's nothing
prettier than a strong, wiry pointer doublin' and turnin' in the brush
and freezin' to a steady point. But for my own part, give me a
well-bred Llewellyn setter; they're the humanest dog they is. They've
got the bird sense, too. Oh, you can't beat 'em."
"Is it hard to train them?" asked Ernest, who was of a practical turn
of mind.
"Not so hard, if you know how," said Sam. "They have so much brains
that they learn about as fast as you teach 'em. But you've got to know
how to go at it. I've seen good sportsmen make a mess of it. First
off, you've got to find out if they've got a nose. That's easy enough
if you live with 'em and watch 'em. Hide something they want and see
how quick they find it. You've got to take 'em when they're young,
of course. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, you know. But a good
bird dog has got it bred in him, and he picks it up quick enough if
you can only be patient and if you show half as much sense as the dog
does."
Then he told, in his own peculiar fashion, how he started with the
puppies, teaching them to retrieve objects such as sticks and balls,
and later dead birds that they must learn to carry gently without
using their teeth.
"Never let 'em think it's just a romp they're havin'," he continued.
"I like to play with puppies as well as anyone, but when I'm breakin'
'em I let 'em understand that it's business. Never let 'em have their
own way if they want to do the wrong thing, and never give 'em an
order without seein' that it's carried out if it takes all day. That's
where the patience comes in. Teach 'em to obey, and you can do most
anything with 'em."
"Do you whip them if they don't obey?" asked Ernest.
"Never whipped a dog in my life," said Sam, decidedly, "except a fox
terrier I had once. They're different. A whipped setter is a spoiled
setter, and if you can't make 'em do what you want 'em to without
whippin' 'em or bribin' 'em, you'd better get out of the business. Of
course, I sometimes give a puppy a piece of cookie or something to
show him he's done what he ought to, but I never use the whip. There's
other kinds of punishment that work better and don't break their
spirits. Just keep 'em from havin' what they want, and tease 'em into
wantin' it awful bad, and you can make 'em do most anything."
He then went on to explain his method of teaching a young dog to hold
his point in the field. He used a long rope tied to a stout collar,
and led the dog to a thicket where a dead bird lay. When the dog got
the scent and started to dash in, a sharp jerk on the rope restrained
him, and in time he was thus taught to stand rigid when the scent came
strong to his nostrils.
"That's one way to teach a dog not to chase chickens, too," he added.
"But a puppy born of trained parents gets the pointin' habit almost by
instinct, and retrievin', too. The main thing is to make him
understand that he's got to do the trick and not something else that
happens to pop into his head. After that, you can teach 'em to answer
your whistle or a wave of your hand and hunt just where you want 'em
to."
"Aren't they afraid of a gun at first?" asked Jack, who had never
learned not to jump when a gun went off.
"Some of 'em are," said Sam. "If a dog is gun-shy he's got to be
broken of that before he's any good in the field. Some folks say you
can never break a dog that's really gun-shy, but I never seen one yet
that I couldn't cure."
"How do you do it?" asked Ernest.
"Well, one way is to give the dog something he wants every time you
shoot off a gun. You can shoot over his dinner, and not let him have
any till he comes up to where you and the gun are. Keep at it, and
after awhile he begins to connect the sound of the gun with things
that he likes. Always take a gun when you go out for a walk with him,
and after awhile he will bark and act happy every time you take it
from the rack. The whole idea of breakin' a bird dog is to make him
think that the thing you want him to do is the thing he wants to do,
and never let that idea get away from him."
The boys continued to ply him with questions, for this was a subject
that they had never heard about before, and Sam willingly added more
details of the process of training. At length he took a big dollar
watch from his pocket and consulted it.
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know it was gettin' so
late. I'll have to be hurryin' along. Say," he added, a little
wistfully, "come up to my house and see me sometime, won't you? I
ain't got anything very elegant up there, but I could show you
something in the line o' dogs and guns that might interest you."
"Oh, we'd love to, if our folks'll let us," said Ernest. "Where do you
live?"
Sam gave them careful directions.
"First and third Tuesdays used to be my days for callers, but nobody
came," said he, as he started up the road with Nan. "So now any old
day will do--if I'm home."
"How about next Saturday?" asked Ernest.
"Saturday it is," said Sam Bumpus, and with a wave of his hand he
vanished around a bend in the road.
Clothes do not make the man, and boys are apt to overlook certain
superficial peculiarities and defects which seem more significant to
their elders. In Sam Bumpus they saw only a man of good humor and
wonderful wisdom, a man whose manner of life was vastly more
interesting than that of the common run of people, whose knowledge of
the lore of woods and fields, of dogs and hunting, entitled him to a
high place in their estimation. They overlooked the externals, the
evidences of poverty and shiftlessness, his lack of education, and saw
only his native wit and shrewdness, his kinship with the world of
nature, and his goodness of heart. They considered it a piece of rare
good fortune to have made the acquaintance of so wise and
sympathetic a person and they felt indebted to him for permission to
visit him, to hear him talk, and to glean from him something of the
knowledge that had come to him through experience.
To Sam Bumpus, however, the obligation seemed to be on the other side.
The boys did not know it, but Sam Bumpus was a lonely man and craved
human companionship. He lived like a hermit in his little shack in the
woods and his peculiarities had set him somewhat apart from the world
of men. He had no living relatives, and apart from the old lady in the
woods road, the inmates of the Poor Farm, and a few other
out-of-the-way people with whom he had been able to win his way
through his natural generosity and kindness, he had practically no
friends but his dogs. He understood dogs better than he understood
men, and, to tell the truth, he esteemed them more highly; yet he
sometimes hungered for human comradeship. That two frank-hearted,
unspoiled boys should seek him out and seem to desire his company gave
him a feeling of unaccustomed satisfaction, and he looked forward to
their promised visit fully as eagerly as did the boys themselves.
This proposed visit was such an unusual affair that Ernest Whipple
considered it advisable to speak to his father about it. Mr. Whipple
was reading his paper and made but little comment, but Mrs. Whipple,
who was in the room at the time, raised objections.
"Don't you think it might be unsafe for the boys to go away off there
alone?" she asked anxiously. "We don't know anything about this man.
He may have a bad influence on them, even if nothing more serious
happens to them. He's a very uncouth person, I should say, and hardly
a fit companion for little boys."
"Oh, I don't think he'll hurt them," said Mr. Whipple from behind his
paper.
But the mother wasn't satisfied, and after the boys had gone to bed
she again brought the matter up.
"Well, mother," said Mr. Whipple, "he probably isn't the sort of
guide, philosopher, and friend that we would have picked out for the
boys, but parents can't always do the picking. They are getting older
all the time, and sooner or later they must be thrown on their own
resources. Self-reliance doesn't come from constant protection and
hemming in. We can't keep them from striking up acquaintances, and
before we raise objections we should be sure that they're well
grounded; then we shall be able to make our objections count for
more."
"But I should think there was good ground for objection in this case,"
she persisted. "This man seems to be so crude and rough, if nothing
worse."
"Oh, he's all right," responded the father. "Don't think I'm careless
about these things. I've made some inquiries, and though I find that
Bumpus is unconventional and queer, as they say, and improvident and
uneducated, he's honest and law-abiding. So far as I can find out, the
worst thing he ever does is to give tobacco to the inmates of the Poor
Farm. I know people right here on Washburn Street that would do the
boys more harm. Just because he doesn't live like folks on Washburn
Street doesn't make him bad."
"Well," said Mrs. Whipple, doubtfully, "I suppose you know best, but
for my part I would much prefer to keep them safe home with me, for
some years to come."
"That's because you've never been a boy," said Mr. Whipple, with a
smile in his eyes. "I have, and it doesn't seem so very long ago,
either."
Mrs. Whipple was not satisfied, but she did not forbid the proposed
visit. The next Saturday, therefore, found them early on their way,
filled with joyful anticipations.
Sam's shack, when at last they arrived, proved to be a forlorn affair,
built of boards of different widths, some red, some white, and some
unpainted. The sagging roof was of corrugated iron and the only
chimney was built of cement pipe guyed up with wires. But to the eyes
of the boys it was a most attractive abode. Never before had they
seen such an interesting house. There must be an element of sport in
living in a cabin like this, they thought.
Sam heard their footsteps and met them smilingly at the door. He
ushered them at once inside, where he had a wood fire roaring in his
stove, for the day was chilly, and he promptly set before them glasses
of milk and hot corn bread. Though they had breakfasted only two hours
before, they fell to with gusto, for that is the way of boys.
"How do you like my corn bread?" asked Sam.
"M-m!" murmured Jack, taking a fresh bite.
"Do you bake it yourself?" inquired Ernest.
"Sure," said Sam.
"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest, looking up at him with admiration.
After they had fully refreshed themselves, Sam took them out through a
back door, from which they could see a number of small structures that
looked as though they had been made out of dry-goods boxes. The sound
of excited barking smote their ears, a chorus of canine cries and
yelps. Old Nan came bounding forward to greet the boys, for she knew
them now, and behind her loped a big pointer.
"This is Hillcroft Dick," said Sam, by way of introduction. "He's a
famous dog, a champion on the bench and at the trials. He ain't my
dog, though. I'm just boardin' him for a man that's gone to
California. I wish I owned him, though. He's a great dog."
[Illustration: Chow Chow]
The boys didn't understand the reference to bench shows and field
trials, but they gathered that Dick was some sort of nobleman among
dogs and they were visibly impressed.
"Now we'll go out to the kennels," said Sam.
There were seven dogs, all told, besides Nan and Dick. There were
two cocker spaniels, in the first place, that Sam said he was training
for a man in Oakdale.
"I like a bigger dog, myself," said he, "but there's a lot of good dog
wrapped up in these small bundles. They're smart as whips, and though
I've got to make 'em forget their foolin' and parlor tricks, I'll soon
have 'em able to find and retrieve. Sometimes you can even teach a
spaniel to point."
The other five were all Sam's dogs, another pointer, a little smaller
than Dick, and four beautiful English setters.
"They've got the best blood in the land," said Sam, proudly, "and
every one of 'em is letter perfect on his job. This is Rex and this is
Robbin and this is Rockaway."
The boys patted and spoke to each in turn, hugely enjoying this
introduction to Sam's family.
"And this one over here is the best of all," he continued. "That's
Nellie, own sister to Nan, and what she don't know wouldn't hurt a
flea. But I guess I'd better keep you away from her to-day. She ain't
feelin' very well."
After they had fondled and played with the dogs to their hearts'
content, the boys followed Sam again into the house, where they spent
the rest of the morning smoothing Nan's silky hair and listening to
wonderful stories about the sagacity of Nellie and the other dogs.
So pleasantly was the time employed that it was eleven o'clock by
Sam's big watch before they thought it possible, and as they had
promised to be home in time for dinner, they were obliged,
reluctantly, to take their departure.
As they turned the bend in the road they looked back and saw Sam
standing in his low doorway with Nan sitting picturesquely beside him.
"Come again soon," called Sam.
"We will," the boys shouted in reply.
CHAPTER III
ROMULUS AND REMUS
They did call again, once on the Saturday before Thanksgiving Day and
again in December, when the woods and fields were white with snow and
they wore their warm sweaters and arctics. On each occasion they
became better acquainted with Sam's dogs and learned something new
about training dogs and finding game, and Sam showed them the
mechanism of his shotguns and rifles. He also explained to them his
method of curing the pelts of muskrats and the beautiful silver-gray
fur of the little moles that the people in charge of the Poor Farm
were very glad to have him trap in their garden. And as the boys came
to know Sam's dogs better they began to see how each differed from the
others in character and disposition and in the way they understood and
did things.
"Just like people," said Sam; "just like people."
Even Mrs. Whipple was unable to discover that the boys' manners had
been damaged greatly by their association with Sam Bumpus, though she
was surprised at their continuous talk about dogs and the strange
jargon, as it seemed to her, which they used in that connection. She
was no less surprised to find that her husband appeared to understand
the meaning of "bird sense" and "freezing to a point" and "retrieving"
and "blood lines" and "cross-breeding" and to be able to discuss these
mysterious matters with the boys.
"But what is the good of their filling their heads with all that
stuff?" she asked him.
"My dear," replied Mr. Whipple, "you may not believe it, but it is
just as much good as arithmetic and geography, and you're always
worrying because they don't take more interest in those things. There
are more ways than one to get an education."
But Mrs. Whipple only shook her head perplexedly.
It was on the day before Christmas that the great event occurred that
I have been leading up to. Ernest and Jack Whipple had returned from
an hour's coasting on the long hill over by the brickyard and were
standing on their sleds beside the front gate bemoaning the fact that
the snow had melted so badly and speculating on the surprises which
the morrow might have in store for them. It was vacation, and they
were considering how best to spend the long hours that would intervene
between dinner and time for lighting up the Christmas tree, when
Ernest stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence and stood
looking up the street.
"Jack!" he exclaimed. "Look who's coming!"
Jack turned and beheld the familiar, lanky figure and long, easy
stride of Sam Bumpus. Both boys set up a yell and started on a run up
the street.
"Merry Christmas, Sam!" they cried. "Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, men," replied Sam, grinning.
One on each side of him, they escorted Sam down the street.
"Have you come to see us?" inquired Ernest.
"Why, no," said Sam. "I came to see the President of the United
States, but I found he wasn't in town, so I thought I'd drop in on
you. You haven't seen anything of him around here, have you?"
The boys laughed delightedly; they had come to understand Sam's kind
of joking.
"Well, you must come into our shack," said Ernest. "We'll introduce
you to mother, and father will be home soon."
"Well, I don't know as I'll exactly go in," replied Sam, doubtfully.
"Maybe your mother ain't asked to be interduced to me. Anyway, I can
talk better outside."
"Where's Nan?" asked Jack.
"I left her home, doin' up the dishes in the kitchen," said Sam.
"The city don't agree with Nan. It don't agree with me much, either. I
won't stop but a minute."
"Aw, come on in," pleaded Ernest.
But Sam shook his head. "No," said he, "I just want to show you
something, and then I must be goin'. Can't we go over to the barn?"
"Sure," said the boys, and led the way to the stable in the yard that
was now used only as a tool house and garage.
"We'll show you our carpenter shop," said Ernest.
But Sam did not stop long to examine the carpenter shop. There was
something very mysterious about his attitude which aroused the boys'
curiosity to top pitch.
"Come over here," said Sam, stepping toward an unused stall.
He began fumbling in his capacious pockets, and the boys crowded close
about him, expecting to see some unusual sort of game he had shot.
Suddenly before their astonished eyes there appeared two fuzzy,
dappled puppies, running and sniffing about the floor of the stall.
"Puppies!" cried the boys in unison.
"Yep," said Sam. "English setter puppies."
"Where did you get them?" demanded Jack, catching up one of the
sprawling little dogs in his arms.
"Nellie gave them to me," said Sam.
A look of comprehension began to dawn in Ernest's eyes. "So that's why
you wouldn't let us go near her kennel last time we were there," said
he. "She had them all the time."
Sam grinned. "They're pretty young to take away from their mother,"
said he, "but she has three more. She's a good mother, Nellie is. You
ought to see her chase the other dogs away. I had a job of it gettin'
these two weaned before Christmas."
"Why did you have to get them weaned before Christmas?" asked Jack.
"Now you jest think that over, and see if you can tell _me_," said
Sam.
Ernest had already half guessed the wonderful truth, but he didn't yet
dare to say what he thought.
"Don't be afraid of 'em," said Sam. "They won't bite--or leastways,
not serious. Besides, they're your own dogs."
"Our own dogs?" gasped Jack in astonishment, the glad light beginning
to break in upon him.
"Sure," said Sam. "What else would they be here for? I thought Santa
Claus might happen to forget you, and so I brought 'em down."
"Oh!" cried Ernest. "Christmas presents! To be our very own dogs! I
guess none of the other boys will have such fine presents as these,
Jack."
But Jack was speechless with joy.
"Have they got names?" asked Ernest.
"Sure," said Sam. "I told you how I name all my dogs with names
beginning with the same letter. All my own puppies, I mean. It's for
good luck. There's Rex, you know, and Robbin and Rockaway. These two
are Romulus and Remus and they're twins. This one with the black ear
is Romulus, and this one with the little map of Africa on his side is
Remus. That's how you can tell 'em apart."
"Which is mine and which is Ernest's?" inquired Jack, at last finding
his voice.
"Well, now, I hadn't thought of that," confessed Sam. "Suppose you
draw lots for 'em. Here, I'll hold these two broom straws so you can't
tell which is longest. You each draw one, and the one that gets the
longest straw can have first choice of the puppies. Is that fair?"
The boys agreed to the plan and drew the straws. Ernest's proved to be
the longer one.
"Well, he's older, anyway," said Jack. "Which one do you choose,
Ernest?"
"I'll take Romulus," said Ernest promptly, having noted that the one
with the black ear was a shade the larger of the two.
"All right," said Jack, "and Remus is mine." And he asserted stoutly
that he would have chosen Remus anyway.
"That's good," said Sam. "Then you're both satisfied. Grown people
would have made more fuss about it, I'll warrant you.
"Well, I must be steppin' along," he continued. "Take good care of the
puppies, because they're valuable. Remember that they're used to
sleepin' close to a warm mother and see that they have a good bed. I'd
put some rags in a box for 'em if I was you. Let 'em have fresh air
and sunshine and a chance to stretch their legs, but don't let 'em get
wet or chilled through and put their bed where they ain't no draughts.
Remember they ain't got their warm coats yet.
"Give 'em a saucer of milk with the chill taken off, six times a day,
and break a little bread into it at supper time. In a few weeks you
can cut down to three meals a day, with more solid food, but I'll be
down to see you before then, if you don't get up to see me, and I'll
tell you just how to manage. Let me know if you have any trouble of
any kind, but I guess you won't."
The clicking of the front gate announced the return of Mr. Whipple to
his noonday meal. The boys ran to the stable door and shouted,
"Father! Oh, father, come see what we've got for Christmas!"
They dashed toward him and dragged him by main force to the stable.
But when they got there, Sam Bumpus had mysteriously disappeared,
without giving the boys a chance to thank him or to wish him another
Merry Christmas.
Mr. Whipple examined the puppies with interest and watched their
clumsy antics with amusement. Like most people he could not resist the
charm of a wet-nosed, big-footed, round-bellied, fuzzy little puppy.
Presently, however, a look of doubt came over his face.
"What do you propose doing with them?" he asked.
"Why, having them for our dogs," said Jack, surprised that his father
should ask so obvious a question.
"I mean, where do you plan to keep them?"
"Why, in our room, I guess," said Ernest.
But Mr. Whipple shook his head doubtfully. "I don't imagine they've
been taught yet how to behave themselves in the house," said he. "And
anyway, I don't believe your mother will want them there. She doesn't
like dogs, you know."
"Aw, she wouldn't mind little bits of soft dogs like these," protested
Ernest.
"Well, you can try it and see," said Mr. Whipple, "but I wouldn't get
my hopes up too high, if I were you."
Mrs. Whipple did object quite decidedly, and for a time it looked as
though Romulus and Remus were unwanted guests in that household and
that their young masters would be forced to part with them. Tears were
shed, but of that we will say little. At last Mrs. Whipple was
persuaded to grant a truce in order that the Christmas Eve festivities
might not be entirely spoiled. Besides, it was too late now to take
the puppies back to Sam Bumpus, and even Mrs. Whipple was not
hard-hearted enough to think of merely putting them out into the cold.
The upshot of it was that, Delia having been given the evening off,
Romulus and Remus were banished to the kitchen for the night, with a
bed prepared in a box and another box of sand placed hopefully near
by. The boys insisted on serving their supper in two separate saucers
with the idea that each would recognize his own and observe the rights
of the other.
Occasional stealthy visits to the kitchen that evening disclosed two
remarkably wakeful and active puppies engaged in unexpected
explorations, but at last they curled up together in their new bed,
two innocent little balls of fluff, and Ernest and Jack bade them
goodnight with much ceremony.
On Christmas Day there was trouble from the start. In fact, it was one
of the liveliest Christmas Days in the history of the Whipple
household. In the first place, when Delia came back early in the
morning to get things started for the Christmas dinner, she
discovered the two little strangers in her kitchen, and promptly made
known the fact that they were puppies whose manners were not at all
what they should be. Mr. Whipple averted a domestic storm by taking
the puppies out into the yard, where he had his hands full to keep
them out of the snow.
By this time the boys had finished the examination of their bulging
stockings and the larger contributions of St. Nicholas which stood
beside the fireplace, and bethought themselves of Romulus and Remus.
They dashed pell-mell out into the yard where their father was
pondering what he should do with them next. The boys promptly solved
this problem by picking up the puppies, each taking his own, and
carrying them forthwith into the house.
Mrs. Whipple was in a good humor that Christmas morning, and she
really wanted her boys to be happy all day, so although she added one
admonition to another, she allowed the boys to play with the puppies
in the sitting-room. They would have to part with them soon enough,
she thought, and meanwhile they might as well have as much fun as they
could.
But as the day wore on her good nature and kind intentions were sorely
tried. Romulus and Remus appeared to think that the house was some
sort of hunting ground especially provided for little dogs, and that
it was their duty to pursue, worry, and kill every sort of strange
creature they could find. Evidently they were imaginative puppies, for
they discovered enemies in overlooked corners of the room, on closet
floors, and everywhere. These enemies might be the discarded paper
wrappings of Christmas presents, or they might be perfectly good balls
of darning cotton. It mattered not to Romulus and Remus so long as
their primitive impulse to catch and slay was satisfied. They were
very bloodthirsty little dogs.
But it ceased to be a joke, even to the boys, when Mrs. Whipple, for
awhile put off her guard by a period of unusual quiet, discovered
Romulus and Remus engaged in the joint pastime of reducing to small
woolly bits a new gray felt slipper which she herself had presented to
her husband that very morning. Hastily she cleared out the bottom of a
closet, thrust the puppies inside, and ruthlessly closed the door,
deaf alike to the piteous little squeaky whines of Romulus and Remus
and the louder protests of Ernest and Jack.
"Now you see what they've done!" cried Mrs. Whipple, holding up the
forlorn and tattered remnants of the slipper. "I guess this will about
finish it. Wait till your father comes home."
Mr. Whipple had gone out for a little while that afternoon, and the
boys awaited his return without much optimism. When his key was at
last heard in the latch they looked at each other with eyes big with
apprehension.
Somebody had given Mr. Whipple a big cigar, and a lot of people had
wished him Merry Christmas, and he was in a very jovial mood indeed.
Mrs. Whipple and the boys expected to see this mood suddenly change
when he observed the ruined slipper.
Mrs. Whipple handed it to him without a word. He took it, examined it
carefully with a puzzled expression, and then (strange to relate)
began to grin. (I wonder if the fact that Mr. Whipple detested felt
slippers could have had anything to do with it.)
The grin broke into a hearty laugh, and Mr. Whipple sank into a chair,
still holding the slipper before him.
"Well," said he, "they certainly made this look like a last year's
bird's nest. My eye! I should like to have seen them at it. The little
rascals! How did they ever escape your eagle eye, mother?"
But Mrs. Whipple did not reply. Two red spots glowed in her cheeks and
her eyes were snapping. She turned and left the room. Mr. Whipple
puffed thoughtfully at his cigar for a moment and then rose and
followed her, leaving the boys to engage in whispered conjectures as
to the outcome of the affair.
I don't know what Mr. Whipple said to his wife in the other room,
but he doubtless apologized for his ill-timed mirth and then talked
over certain things with her. The upshot of it all was that a
compromise was reached in that household. It was decided that Ernest
and Jack might keep the puppies they had so set their hearts upon
provided they were kept entirely away from Mrs. Whipple and were not
permitted to intrude themselves upon her affairs. The boys must assume
entire charge of them and be responsible for their actions, must feed
and care for the dogs themselves without bothering their mother,
paying for their food out of their own earnings and savings, and must
on no condition bring them into the house. That was the ultimatum;
Mrs. Whipple vowed that she would never allow another dog to enter her
doors.
"It's up to you, boys," said Mr. Whipple.
Strangely enough, the boys did not feel that these restrictions
imposed great hardship. In fact, it gave them a sense of pride and not
unpleasant responsibility to be given sole charge of Romulus and
Remus. Nothing, indeed, could have suited them better. And they were
so relieved to find that they were not to be deprived of their new
possessions after all that they were quite excitedly happy.
The only question that now seriously concerned them was to find a
warm, dry place to keep the puppies in during the cold weather,
while they were still so delicate and helpless. It was here that their
mother came to their rescue. Having won her main point about keeping
the dogs out of the house, she was mollified, and perhaps her
conscience troubled her a little. She was really a very tender-hearted
woman, and it occurred to her that her ultimatum might be the cause of
real suffering on the part of the puppies. So it was she who sent for
a carpenter and had him make a sort of room out of one of the old
stalls in the stable, quite tight against draughts, and with a door in
the front for convenience.
When Mr. Whipple learned of this he laughed and patted his wife on the
shoulder. "I always knew you were a cruel monster," he said.
He inspected the new abode of Romulus and Remus and expressed his
approval.
"It's the best thing in the world for them," he said to the boys.
"They will be really better off here than in a heated house. They'll
grow up sturdier and stronger. They only need to be protected against
draughts and dampness, as Bumpus said. But you mustn't forget to keep
both doors closed and to warm their milk and water a little, while
their stomachs are still tender. They'll curl up close together and
never mind the still, dry cold. They'll be all right here."
CHAPTER IV
IN ROME
Furnishing and decorating the new home of Romulus and Remus proved to
be a most enjoyable task. They took a good-sized box over to the
planing mill and got it filled with sawdust, and dragged it home on
Ernest's sled. They swept out the old stall carefully and sprinkled
the floor liberally with sawdust, holding the rest in reserve, so that
there might always be a clean, fresh supply. Housekeeping was thus
made easy by simply hoeing out the old sawdust.
For a bed they set a soap box on its side, put in a thick layer of
straw, and tacked a piece of old carpet loosely over it so that it
would be soft and yet the puppies could not scratch it out. They
bought two enameled tin dishes, one for food and one for water, for
they discovered that the puppies did not understand the system of each
having his own. They nailed bits of wood to the floor to hold the
dishes so that they would not be pushed about and overturned. The
puppies enjoyed all this activity immensely, making laughable
efforts to help, and only wailed and wept when their young masters
left the room.
When it was done, the boys surveyed their handiwork with immense
satisfaction, but Jack would not be satisfied until they had tacked to
the wall several pictures of dogs clipped from papers and magazines,
for Jack insisted that the place must be made homelike.
They had read somewhere about the original Romulus and Remus of
history, and so they named the apartment Rome. They thought Sam Bumpus
would approve of this since it began with the letter R. Then they
nailed an old horseshoe to the door for luck, called it a day, and
knocked off.
The next thing to consider was the education of the puppies, and here
the boys felt somewhat at a loss. Romulus and Remus didn't seem to
understand a word of English, and the boys couldn't speak Latin. All
attempts to secure the prompt obedience that Sam had advised ended in
utter failure. Romulus and Remus were very willful and headstrong
puppies. Further advice from Sam seemed desirable.
Furthermore, about the end of the second week, both puppies appeared
to be ailing. In spite of plenty of milk they had grown thin, and
Romulus appeared to have trouble with the action of his hind legs.
Remus seemed to be chiefly afflicted with itching, and had worn a bare
spot under each foreleg.
Ernest and Jack became alarmed, and their father could not seem to
tell what the trouble was. Various things prevented the boys from
making the trip to Sam's shack, and besides they wanted him to take a
look at the dogs. They had noticed his free delivery mail box and so
Ernest sent him this brief summons on a postal card:
DEAR SAM:--
Romulus and Remus are sick and we don't know what to do.
Could you come down some day after school and see them? Also we
want to ask you some things about disaplining them.
Yours truly,
ERNEST AND JACK WHIPPLE.
Sam did not fail them. A couple of days later he appeared at the
Whipple gate and gave the low whistle that he used with Nan. The boys,
humoring his desire not to go into the house, led him at once to Rome.
"Well, now," said Sam, inspecting the puppies' home with evidences of
approval, "this is quite a palace for the little princes. Some day I
s'pose they'll have hot and cold water, electric lights, and a
doorbell."
Then he proceeded to examine the puppies while the boys looked on
anxiously.
"Hm," said he at length. "Just as I expected. Nothing but worms."
"Worms?" echoed the boys in chorus.
"Sure," replied Sam. "Most all puppies get 'em sooner or later, and
sometimes they do a lot of harm if you don't get rid of 'em. But we'll
get rid of 'em all right. Get a pencil and paper and write down what I
tell you to get at the drug store and the directions."
When they reappeared with the necessary articles, Sam continued:
"There's several things that'll take care of worms, but the best and
surest is santonin and calomel. Write that down."
Ernest wrote as Sam spelled the words. It seemed to be much more of an
accomplishment to be able to pronounce and spell such words than
fulfilment or handicraft.
"Tell the druggist," said Sam, "to make you up half a dozen pills with
half a grain of calomel and half a grain of santonin in each one. For
big dogs we make 'em one grain each. To-morrow mornin' give the pups a
little milk and then don't feed 'em again till after they've been
dosed. About noon give 'em each a pill, and then, a couple of hours
later, give 'em each a teaspoonful of castor oil. A couple of hours
after that, feed 'em again, and I'll guarantee they'll be all right,
though you may have to do it all over again in a couple of months. Big
dogs have to fast longer and have to have a tablespoonful of castor
oil."
"How do you give them the medicine?" inquired Ernest, looking at the
squirming puppies doubtfully.
"Easy enough when you know how," said Sam. "I'll show you. Pick him up
like this and take hold of his nose, pushin' his lips between his
teeth with your thumb and fingers. He can't bite and he has to open
his mouth. Of course, with a bigger dog it's harder if he don't want
to stand still. Then take a pill in your other hand and put it down
his throat as far as you can reach. Then shut his mouth and hold his
head up till he has to swaller. He'll never know what went down. It's
the same way with the castor oil, only you'll have to get Jack to hold
the spoon and put it in when you give the word. Put it way down in,
Jack, and don't get excited and spill it. Get a spoon and I'll show
you how easy it is."
Jack ran for a spoon and Sam illustrated with a spoonful of water.
Then the boys tried it until they felt themselves sufficiently expert.
"There's a way of pourin' medicine into the side of a dog's mouth
outside his teeth," said Sam, "but he's apt to spill some of it
before he gets through. Besides, he gets the taste of it that way, and
may run from the sight of a spoon or a bottle ever after. I like my
way better."
He looked at his watch and announced that he must be going.
"I'll look in on you again one of these days," he said, "but I know
they'll be all right if you do like I said."
"And you like Rome, don't you?" asked Jack.
"Rome?" repeated Sam.
"We named it that because Romulus and Remus were Romans," explained
Ernest.
"Yes, it's a mighty good place for them," said Sam. Then he considered
a moment. "Do you expect me to get down and roll in the sawdust and
try to bite things?"
The boys laughed at the idea, though they didn't exactly know what he
meant.
"Why?" asked Ernest.
"Because I've always been told that when you're in Rome you must do as
the Romans do," said Sam, and went away laughing silently.
The boys followed Sam's instructions to the letter, and when he came
again a week later the puppies were as healthy and lively as crickets.
"Now," said Ernest, "we want to ask you about training them. We
forgot about that the other day."
"You don't expect to go gunnin' with 'em for a few days, do you?"
asked Sam.
"No," said Ernest, "but we want them to learn to come when we call and
do what we say."
"Well," said Sam, "all it needs is patience. Keep talkin' to 'em and
the first thing you know you'll find they understand words. Then try
to make 'em do what the words mean. Remember they're only babies yet
and be patient with 'em. Keep at it until they answer to their names.
Don't be discouraged. Of course, it'll be harder gettin' 'em
housebroken if you don't let 'em into the house, but I'll guarantee
you'll do it.
"It ought to be about time to cut down to four meals a day now, and
give 'em shredded wheat or puppy biscuits. And now I'm here, I might
as well give you a little advice about feedin' in gen'ral. You'll
remember it all later. In another month you can cut down to three
meals and maybe add a little chopped meat and gravy at night. Keep
that up till they're six or eight months old, and then you can begin
to feed 'em like grown dogs.
"In feedin' dogs," he continued, "remember they're like humans. They
ought to have meat and grain and vegetables to get all they want to
build 'em up and keep 'em healthy. Some dogs is very finicky and
won't eat vegetables, but you can learn 'em to eat right if you begin
right. A grown dog don't need but one meal a day, near night, but
sometimes a dog gets so hungry that he overeats or bolts his food, and
then it's a good plan to give him a little breakfast, too. Bones they
can have any time. Bones amuse 'em and help keep their teeth and
digestion in good shape. A good rule is to give a dog a little bread
and milk for breakfast, a bone without too much meat on it about noon,
and a good dinner at night, with all sorts of things in it. Get shin
of beef or some other cheap meat at the butcher's and boil it good.
Save the bone and the soup. Cut the meat up in small pieces, mix it
with bread or rice and any vegetables left over from the
house--onions, cabbage, carrots, or anything but potatoes. They ain't
very good for dogs. Mix the food all up together and moisten it with
the soup, but don't have it too wet. Stale bread is better for 'em
than fresh bread. Never give 'em chicken or rabbit bones that may
splinter and injure 'em inside. Don't give too much pork or fat of any
kind. Don't give 'em much candy or sweet stuff. Some folks bake bread
or cakes specially for dogs, but if you do that, don't use much corn
meal. It's too heatin' in summer and it's apt to cause skin trouble.
If anything seems to disagree with 'em, like baked beans, or sweet
corn, or rice, cut it out; you can tell. Last of all, always keep
plenty of clean, fresh water where they can get it. A thirsty dog is
never happy."
These and other instructions the boys obtained from Sam Bumpus from
time to time, and as the days went by they were pleased to see their
dogs growing bigger and stronger. Slowly, too, they began to learn the
meaning of things and to obey their masters' voices. Raising dogs
proved to be the most fascinating thing that Ernest and Jack Whipple
had ever undertaken.
By February they were very proud of their charges and anxious to show
them off. Consequently they welcomed a visit one Saturday morning from
Harry Barton, a chum of theirs. Harry appeared unannounced and
accompanied by his big, bow-legged English bulldog, Mike. He went
directly to the barn, from which issued the voices of the Whipple boys
and their dogs, and entered Rome. The unexpected appearance of Mike
startled Jack, and he picked Remus hastily up and held him in
protecting arms. But Harry only laughed.
"What you 'fraid of?" he inquired. "Mike wouldn't hurt a kitten. He
looks ugly and that's what scares tramps away, but he never bit
anything. You ought to see the baby walk all over him."
"Come on in, then," invited Ernest.
Mike went slowly up to Romulus and sniffed at him noisily. At first
the puppy was frightened, but finding that he was not attacked he
made one or two playful little lunges at the bulldog and then stood
off and barked shrilly at him, Remus joining in the chorus and
struggling to be set down.
"They've got spunk, all right," said Ernest, proudly.
[Illustration: English Bulldog]
Mike sniffed at Remus also, then yawned in a bored sort of way,
waddled out of Rome as though his years and dignity forbade his
association with such frivolous company, and thumped down on the floor
outside. All three boys laughed.
"Well, what do you think of 'em?" Ernest asked presently. "Some dogs,
eh?"
"Oh, they'll prob'ly be all right when they grow up," said Harry,
unwilling to concede too much. "They'll have to grow a lot, though,
before they know as much as Mike."
"But a bulldog can't hunt like a setter," said Ernest, flying to the
defense of his breed.
"Who wants to hunt?" demanded Harry. "Hunting isn't all a dog's for,
is it? A bulldog's a better watchdog than a setter."
Ernest, not knowing whether this was so or not, made no reply.
"But aren't they cunning, Harry?" asked Jack.
"Oh, sure, they're cunning," said Harry, satisfied that he had scored
his point. "Can they shake hands yet?"
"Not yet," said Jack.
"Mike can shake hands," said Harry, "and take the mail from the
postman, and do lots of things."
"But he can't hunt," insisted Ernest, returning to the attack.
"I'd rather have a bulldog than a setter, any day," said Harry. "Why,
the bulldog is one of the best kinds of dogs. It's an older kind than
the setter. They used them in England for fighting bulls hundreds of
years ago. A bulldog is brave and faithful, and he sticks to things.
He isn't a flyaway kind of a dog."
"But they're so homely," objected Jack, glancing out at Mike.
"Ho," cried Harry, "who ever heard of a pretty bulldog? We don't want
'em pretty. Mike's just like a bulldog ought to be, thick-set,
muscular, with wide chest, elbows set far apart, and undershot jaw.
See?"
It sounded very much as though he were reading it out of a book, and
the other boys were much impressed. Ernest found himself wondering
where Harry had picked up his dog lore.
"What do you know about setters?" demanded Harry.
Ernest, in the face of superior wisdom, admitted that he didn't know
very much.
"Well, you ought to," said Harry. "What's the use of having dogs if
you don't know all about them?"
"Sam Bumpus has told us a good deal about training and hunting," said
Jack.
"Yes, but what do you know about the breed, where it came from and all
that? Do you want to find out?"
"Sure," said Ernest.
"Well, I'll tell you where you can find out," said Harry. "I know a
man that knows more about dogs than anybody else in the world, I
guess."
"Who is he?" demanded Ernest.
"Did you ever hear of the Willowdale Kennels?" asked Harry.
Ernest was forced to admit that he had not.
"Well, they're over at Thornboro," said Harry. "They have twenty-eight
dogs there. Mr. Hartshorn owns them, but the man that takes care of
them is Tom Poultice. He's an Englishman, and he used to have charge
of kennels in England once. He knows all about collies and greyhounds
and--and every kind of dogs there are."
"I bet he doesn't know more about setters and pointers than Sam Bumpus
does," said Ernest, loyally.
"Bet you a hundred dollars he does," said Harry.
"Bet you a thousand he doesn't."
The bidding bade fair to be unlimited, and though the millions and
billions and trillions remained to be called upon, Harry desisted.
"Tell you what I'll do," said he. "I'll take you over there and then
you can see for yourselves."
Ernest and Jack promptly forgot their controversy with Harry and
accepted his proposal with animation.
"And can we see all those dogs?" asked Ernest.
"Sure," said Harry.
"How many did you say there were?"
"Twenty-four besides four puppies."
"Whew!" Jack exclaimed.
"When can we go?" asked Ernest.
"Why, this afternoon, if you want to. It's over five miles to
Thornboro, but we can take the 2:10 train and be there in no time. You
come along by my house after dinner and whistle," said Harry.
"Bully," said Ernest, and Harry turned and walked jauntily out of the
stable with old Mike lumbering at his heels.
CHAPTER V
THE WILLOWDALE KENNELS
As Harry Barton had said, it was only a short run on the train to
Thornboro. The three boys disembarked at the station and walked up a
winding, muddy road, for the sun was gathering strength and the snow
had been melting fast. The fields and hillsides lay brown and dry, but
not uninviting. It was a glorious day to be out of doors, especially
upon such a quest.
They came at length to an entrance in a privet hedge and passed up a
long driveway with maple trees along both sides. At the end of it they
could see a large brick house with white pillars along the front.
"My, but this is a big place," said Ernest.
"Sure," said Harry. "Mr. Hartshorn is a rich man. If he wasn't, how do
you s'pose he could keep so many dogs and hire a man just to take care
of them?"
"What does he do with so many?" inquired Jack, to whom the care of one
small puppy seemed a considerable responsibility.
"Oh, he shows them," was Harry's somewhat vague explanation. "He takes
prizes with them at dog shows. Some of them are champions. He breeds
them, too, and he sells the puppies he doesn't want to keep. I guess
he makes a good deal of his money that way."
"What kind of dogs are they?" asked Ernest.
"Mostly Airedale terriers and white bull terriers," said Harry. "Not
common bull terriers, like Frank Symonds's, but the finest kind, all
white."
As they neared the house, Harry led them into a path through the
shrubbery which brought them at last around to the rear, where there
was a big stable and garage, a greenhouse, and some other buildings.
"That long low building is the kennels," said Harry. "The dogs are in
their runs out back, I expect, and prob'ly Tom is out there, too."
"Why!" exclaimed Jack, "it's just like a house for people."
The Willowdale kennel house was indeed a more elaborate affair than
the boys had imagined could ever have been built just for dogs. It
made Rome appear very humble in comparison. It was a well-built house,
long and low, with windows all along the front and a door in the
middle. Over this door was an ornamental gable and there was a cupola
at the top. The whole was painted white.
The boys passed around the end of the building, from behind which
issued the voices of many dogs which they presently saw running
about in yards built of wire fencing. Some of the dogs were smooth and
pure white and some were wiry-coated and a rich black and tan--tan on
the legs and head and black or a very dark grizzle on the neck and
body. They all appeared to be very lively, active dogs, and some of
them seemed rather pugnaciously anxious to get at one another through
the wire fences.
"There's Tom," announced Harry, and the other boys, following his
pointing finger, observed a man in brown clothes and leather leggings
apparently engaged in mending the fence at the rear of one of the
runs. As they approached he straightened up and came forward to meet
them, with a little smile on his broad face.
"Well," said he, "'ere we are. An' 'ow's the little man to-day? An'
'ow's the dog Mike?"
"Pretty well, thank you," said Harry, in a rather more subdued tone
than he had been using toward Jack and Ernest. "These are my friends,
Ernest and Jack Whipple. They want to see your dogs."
Tom Poultice regarded the newcomers quizzically. "Sure you aren't
afraid o' gettin' bit?"
"Oh, no, we aren't afraid of dogs," asserted Ernest.
"Right-o," said Tom. "Come along and I'll show you our new Hairedale,
Bingo's Queen Molly. She's a 'ummer, Molly is."
He led the way through a wire gate into one of the runs and called the
new dog to him, whereat the dogs in the neighboring runs set up a loud
barking.
"They're all jealous," said Tom, "but they wouldn't touch 'er. A male
dog scarcely ever attacks a female."
[Illustration: White English Bull Terrier]
Molly proved to be a sweet, gentle creature, and allowed the boys to
pat and stroke her hard little head.
"She's the genooine harticle," said Tom. "See the straight legs of 'er
an' the square muzzle. She'll win something, or I'm no judge."
"She's a little smaller than some of them, isn't she?" asked Harry.
"Yes, but she's just about the right size for showing," said Tom.
"Thirty-seven she weighs. I'm partial to the bigger dogs, myself, but
the judges generally favor a smaller dog if he's got the points.
Molly's certainly got the points."
Much to the edification of the boys, Tom went on to describe the
standard points of the Airedale, illustrating with several of the
dogs, all of whom seemed to be very fond of the kennelman. Then he
took them in to see the bull terriers.
"'Ere's a different kind of dog entirely," he said. "As good a fighter
and watchdog as the Hairedale, but not useful in so many ways. It's an
older breed than the Hairedale. I can remember when the bull terrier
was a heavier dog, and brindles were just as good as whites, but now
they want only this kind in the shows, with a long skull and pure
white. Eyes small and shaped like almonds, and set wide apart. That's
the kind. The ears have to be cropped in this country to win prizes.
Beastly custom. They don't do it in Hengland any more. I'm glad they
let the Hairedales' ears alone."
For some time Tom Poultice discoursed learnedly on these two breeds
and answered numerous questions.
"What-ho," he exclaimed suddenly. "'Ere's Mr. 'Artshorn coming. Get
'im to tell you about dogs. 'E knows a thing or two 'imself."
A well-dressed gentleman in a gray overcoat and hat, with a gray
pointed beard, and carrying a cane, appeared around the end of the
kennel house. The boys appeared a little ill at ease.
"Don't be scared of 'im," said Tom. "'E likes boys."
"Well, Tom," said Mr. Hartshorn, stopping now and then to poke his
stick through the fence at the dogs that came yelping down their runs
to greet him, "how's Molly?"
"Mighty fine, sir," said Tom; "mighty fine."
"Some of your friends?" he inquired, indicating the boys.
"Yes, sir," said Tom. "This is Harry Barton, sir, from Boytown, and
these--what did you say your names were?"
"Ernest and Jack Whipple," said Ernest.
"Ah, yes," said Mr. Hartshorn, just as though he had been reading
about these boys in the paper. "Glad to meet you, I'm sure. Came up to
have a look at the finest dogs in Connecticut, I suppose."
He had a pleasant, friendly face, and though the boys were a little
awed by his imposing appearance and courtly manner, they soon lost
their shyness and found themselves asking him many questions about
dogs.
"Come up to the house," said he at length. "I can explain things
better up there, where I have some pictures."
Tom went back to his work and the boys, bidding him good-by, followed
Mr. Hartshorn up to the big house. He took them into a room that he
said was his den. There was a big desk in it, all littered up with
papers, and well filled bookcases around the room.
"Are all these books about dogs?" inquired Harry.
"Well, a good many of them are," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I have about
every book on dogs that has been printed, I expect."
On the walls above the bookcases were photographs and colored pictures
of dogs and horses in frames, and at one side of the room was a long
leather sofa. Mr. Hartshorn seated himself at his desk and began
rummaging in a drawer full of photographs, while he told the boys to
be seated on the sofa.
"Now, then," he said when they were all settled, "you were asking me
about the different kinds of terriers, and I guess I've got pictures
of good specimens of about every kind. How many kinds of standard
breeds of terriers do you suppose there are?"
"About eight, I guess," said Harry, who was a little more forward than
the Whipple boys.
"Wrong," said Mr. Hartshorn. "There are nearly a hundred recognized
breeds of dogs in this country, all different, and eighteen of these
are terriers. To make them easier to remember, I will divide them into
three classes, smooth-coated, wire-haired, and long-haired. The
smooths are the bull terrier, the Boston, the smooth fox terrier, the
Manchester, and the Doberman pinscher. The wires are the wire-haired
fox terrier, the Airedale, the Bedlington, the Irish, the Welsh, the
Scottish, the West Highland white, the Dandie Dinmont, the cairn, and
the Sealyham. The long-haired ones are the Skye, the Clydesdale, and
the Yorkshire."
"My!" exclaimed Ernest. "I never heard of some of them before."
"Lots of people haven't," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but they're all worth
knowing. You can see nearly all of them at a big show like the one
held every year in New York. I'm going to tell you something about
them all, if you'd like to listen."
"Oh, yes, please do," said Ernest.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, arranging his photographs, "first let me
explain what a terrier is. Most of them come from England and
Scotland. A few from Wales and Ireland. Terrier means earth dog, and
that's what they were called hundreds of years ago when they were
first used to hunt animals that run into the ground or under stones.
They had to be brave and gamey and not too big, and they became very
active little dogs and mighty efficient. At first, some were
smooth-coated and some wire-coated. Finally, however, Englishmen began
to breed certain favorite kinds, and so the different breeds were
gradually established.
"One of the oldest kinds is the Manchester or black-and-tan terrier.
He was first bred by the mill hands in the Midland counties of England
where he was famous as a ratter. Here's a picture of one. Handsome
chap, isn't he? Nice, intelligent dog, too. His ears are cropped but
his tail isn't. The white bull terrier is a near relative of the
Manchester. I've already told you about him.
"Now here's the Boston. I guess you know this kind."
"Oh, yes," said Ernest. "Theron Hammond has one named Alert."
"This is an American-made breed," said Mr. Hartshorn, "out of British
raw material. Some Boston fanciers developed it from the brindle bull
terrier about 1890. It's one of the most popular breeds here now. A
smallish dog--sometimes too small, I think--brindle and white. And
here's the smooth fox terrier. You've seen lots of those. Another
small one, not over twenty pounds. He was developed from the old
English working terrier about fifty years ago.
[Illustration: Airedale Terrier]
"Now here's one that I don't believe you know. It's a Doberman
pinscher. Funny name. Wonderfully smart dog, though. They call him the
dog with the human brain. He comes from Germany, where he was first a
watchdog and was later trained as a police dog. I believe the first
ones were brought over here in 1907. A muscular dog, weighing forty or
fifty pounds. He is marked like the Manchester but his coat is less
silky.
"Now we come to the wires. The wire-haired fox terrier is really just
like the smooth, but he looks quite different because of his stiff,
wiry coat. Then there's the Airedale. You know about those. Best
all-round dog in the world in my opinion. This is a Bedlington. You
won't see many of those. Has a head like a lamb, hasn't he? And notice
the silky topknot. He's a good little sporting dog if he does look so
mild. They're mostly blue-gray and tan, and weigh about twenty-four
pounds.
"Here's the liveliest one of the lot, the Irish terrier. Sometimes
they call him the dare-devil. He's a great little scrapper. He comes
from Ireland, of course. He's a red dog, weighs twenty-four pounds,
and makes one of the best comrades a boy can have. The Welsh terrier
is related to the wire-haired fox, though he looks more like a small
Airedale, being black and tan. He's a little smaller than the
Irishman.
"Several terriers come from Scotland, and as you can see from these
pictures they're a short-legged, strong-headed, long-bodied lot.
That's because they were bred to go into the ground and the piles of
rocks after badger and such-like game. They had to be pretty tough to
manage it, too. This is the cairn terrier. He used to be called the
Highland terrier, and I guess he's more nearly like the original
terrier of Scotland than any of the others, He came from the
Hebrides Islands. I expect you've never seen one, for they aren't
common in this country. But they're jolly little beggars. They're the
smallest of the lot, weighing only twelve to fifteen pounds, but
mighty hardy and gamey. They are various sandy and grizzled colors and
always have this foxy little head.
"You may have seen one of these. It's a Scottish terrier, once called
the Aberdeen, and we have a lot of good ones over here now. Some call
him the Scottie or the die-hard. See how wise he looks, with his
bright eyes under his big eyebrows. Notice the big head and short legs
and upright tail. There are some sandy ones, but mostly they're a dark
grizzled gray. They weigh eighteen to twenty pounds. Here's his first
cousin, the West Highland white terrier. He comes from Argyllshire, on
the west coast of Scotland, and he's always pure white. Like most of
the other Scotchmen he has a harsh outer coat and a soft under coat,
which are practically waterproof. He has a more pointed muzzle than
the Scottie and he's smaller."
At the next picture the boys all laughed. It was such a queer-looking
dog, with such a big head and long body, and a face like that of an
old Scotchman.
"He's a Dandie Dinmont," said Mr. Hartshorn. "If you ever read 'Guy
Mannering' by Sir Walter Scott, you may remember that he speaks of
Dandie Dinmont's pepper and mustard terriers. The book was published
in 1814, and Dandie Dinmont terriers have been popular in the border
countries of Scotland ever since. The Dandie is related to the
Bedlington. You see he has the same drooping ears and the topknot.
Gray and fawn are the colors.
"This is the last of the wires. It's a Sealyham. He looks as though he
might be related to the Scotch breeds, with his short legs and strong
head. He was, in fact, bred for badger hunting, as they were, but he
comes from Wales. We have had them in this country only since 1912.
The Sealyham is a mighty lovable little dog. He is white, often with
black or brown markings, and he's about the same size as the West
Highlander.
"Now we come to the long-coated ones, and the first of them is the
Skye, another of the Scotch breeds. He's a close relative of the
cairn, but he has a long coat and hair over his eyes. He's about the
same size as the West Highlander and he's blue-gray or fawn. They used
to be much more common than they are now. By the way, did you ever
read the story of Greyfriars Bobby?"
None of the boys had read it.
"Well, do so the first chance you get. That's on of the loveliest dog
stories ever written, and it's true. Greyfriars Bobby was a Skye
terrier.
"This is the Clydesdale or Paisley terrier. Not at all a common breed.
I doubt if you'll ever see one in the United States. He looks
something like the Skye, but his coat is silkier. He's steel blue on
the body and head, with golden tan feet. The Yorkshire comes from the
other side of the border, and he's something like the Clydesdale, only
with longer legs and shorter body. He's a fancy dog with a wonderful
coat, parted down the middle and sweeping the ground. He's steel blue
with tan markings on the head, chest, and legs.
"There you have all the terriers," he concluded, "and I guess you've
had a long enough lesson for one day. These facts are all very
interesting, but they become prosy and confusing if taken in too large
doses. Here, take this book home with you, and look it over at your
leisure. You'll find in it all the things I've told you and a lot more
besides."
"Terriers are the smartest dogs there are, I guess," said Harry.
"Well, I don't know as I should want to say quite that," said Mr.
Hartshorn. "Smartness and other qualities are as much a matter of
individuals as of breeds. However, the terriers certainly have won
that reputation."
"Do you know any good stories about them?" asked Harry, who was
never backward in such matters. Mr. Hartshorn laughed.
"Unfortunately my memory for stories isn't very good," said he, "but I
have lots of stories in books, and before you boys come up again, I'll
look up some of them. Meanwhile, see if they have a book in the
Boytown Library by Edward Jesse, called 'Anecdotes of Dogs.' It was
published in London in 1858, and it isn't very common, but if you can
find a copy, it's a dandy. It contains most of the historic dog
stories. It includes several stories about terriers, chiefly
illustrating their intelligence, but also their devotion. Many of
them, I recall, are stories of dogs that found their way home over
unknown roads after being carried away for long distances. This homing
instinct seems to be very strong in the terrier. The breed has always
been a very close and intimate companion of man, and that has
sharpened his wits and deepened his sympathies.
"The only terrier story that I recall at the moment is a little
anecdote that illustrates the terrier's shrewdness rather than his
uprightness of character. A lady music teacher was going to the home
of one of her pupils one day when some sort of wire-haired terrier
surprised and startled her by running out from a field and seizing her
skirt in his teeth. She tried to drive him away, but he wouldn't go.
Becoming somewhat alarmed by his actions, she called to two laborers
who were working in the field, and they came to her assistance.
"'He wants you to go with him, ma'am," one of the men said. 'I've
heard of dogs actin' like that. Maybe it's a murder or something. I
guess we'd better go along.'
"They followed the dog to the rear of a cottage, and he at once began
to dig feverishly at a heavy plank. The workmen, half expecting to
find a corpse, lifted the plank, only to disclose a large beef bone.
This the terrier at once appropriated and made off with it, without
waiting to express his thanks for assistance."
The boys laughed over this story, and thanked Mr. Hartshorn warmly for
the interesting things he had told them. Then, squabbling
good-naturedly over the possession of the dog book, they hurried off
to catch the late afternoon train back to Boytown.
It was not long before they had another lesson in dog lore, though
this time it was not Mr. Hartshorn who was their teacher. The next
Saturday the three of them made another trip to Thornboro to return
the book, in the fascinating contents of which they had been reveling
for a week. They met Tom Poultice on the road with half a dozen of the
dogs out for exercise. They were a lively lot, and it took about all
of Tom's attention to keep them in hand.
"Mr. 'Artshorn isn't 'ome to-day," said Tom. "You come along with me
and the dogs and I'll show you some fun. You can leave the book up at
the 'ouse when we get back."
The boys accepted this as a rare privilege, and for an hour or two
accompanied Tom and his troublesome pack about the country roads. The
bull terriers were fairly well behaved, but the Airedales seemed bent
upon getting into all kinds of mischief. On two occasions Tom had his
hands full breaking up what promised to become a free-for-all fight.
But the boys could not help admiring the boundless vigor of these dogs
who seemed hardly able to contain all the youth and joy and life
within them. It made the boys want to run and romp and caper in
sympathy.
As they entered the drive at Willowdale on their return, they saw a
sweet-faced woman standing on the porch with a little woolly white dog
beside her.
"That's Mrs. 'Artshorn," said Tom. "You can give the book to 'er.
She'd like you to stop and speak to 'er."
Somewhat shyly the boys followed his advice, but Mrs. Hartshorn, like
her husband, seemed to have the faculty of making them soon feel at
their ease. She at once introduced them to Daisy, her toy white
poodle. Daisy's long hair had been trimmed and clipped in a
ridiculous manner that made the boys laugh, but she soon proved
herself to be as smart as a whip. Mrs. Hartshorn put her through all
her pretty tricks.
"I suppose, after seeing all those Airedales and bull terriers, you
won't think much of my little dogs," said Mrs. Hartshorn. "Tom
Poultice is very scornful about toys. But a dog is a dog, no matter
how little. I want you to come in and see my prize Pomeranian, Tip."
They followed her into the house and up a broad staircase. At the top
she turned and said:
"I think Tip is in the nursery with the baby. Don't be startled if he
tries to eat you up. You needn't be quiet, because it's about time for
baby's nap to be over."
She ushered them into the nursery, a pretty pink and white room, and
there lay a handsome, chocolate-colored little dog on a mat beside a
white crib. At the sight of strangers Tip growled a little and showed
his white teeth.
"Don't you want to take a look at the baby?" asked Mrs. Hartshorn,
with a twinkle in her eyes.
Harry Barton stepped bravely forward, but was met by an attack so
savage that he hastily retired. Tip did not bark; barking was not
permitted in the nursery. But he defended his charge with a ferocity
quite out of proportion to his diminutive size.
"Lie down, Tip," said Mrs. Hartshorn, laughing. "It's all right." And
Tip retired, grumbling, to his rug.
[Illustration: Pomeranian]
"He's little, but, oh, my!" said Mrs. Hartshorn. "I don't believe one
of you would dare to touch that baby with Tip anywhere around. Now
isn't he a dog, after all?"
The boys admitted quite readily that he was.
"He chased a tramp away once," said she. "The tramp came to the
front door when Mr. Hartshorn was away, and spoke so roughly to my
maid that I was really quite frightened. Tip heard him and came out
like a flash. The man swore and kicked at him. Nothing makes a dog so
angry as kicking at him, and Tip jumped and nipped the man's finger.
He swore again, but Tip renewed his attack to such good purpose that
the man backed away and finally retreated in disorder with Tip at his
heels. I've known big dogs that couldn't do so much."
The boys looked upon Tip with new respect.
"Now come and see my Pekes," said Mrs. Hartshorn.
The boys followed her into another room where two Pekingese spaniels
got lazily out of a basket and came forward to greet her. And for the
next few minutes the boys found infinite amusement playing with the
fluffy little pets.
CHAPTER VI
ANXIOUS DAYS
It was April before the three boys had an opportunity to accept Mrs.
Hartshorn's invitation to visit her at Willowdale. On this occasion,
as on the last, Mr. Hartshorn was away from home and there were only
the four of them at luncheon. A soft-footed maid in a white cap and
apron filled their plates with creamed chicken on toast, followed by
delicious hot waffles and maple syrup.
When luncheon was over, she led them into her husband's den and took
down one of his books.
"I suppose you've been about filled up with dog talk," said she, "but
I want to be sure that you're converted to a love for the toys. So
many men and boys don't care for them, but when you come to know about
them, they're just as interesting as any other dogs. That is, most of
them are. There are some kinds that I confess I don't especially care
for myself. Come sit on the sofa and look at this book with me."
When they were comfortably seated, she began turning over the pages of
the book, pointing out pictures of the various toy breeds.
"We'll take the short-coated ones first," said she, "since that's the
way they're arranged in the book. Now can you imagine anything more
delicate and graceful than this little dog? It's the Italian
greyhound, you see. Some of the toy breeds have been created by a
dwarfing process by modern fanciers, but this little chap was known in
Italy in the Middle Ages. You can see dogs something like him on Greek
and Roman statuary.
"Now here's the good old pug. You know the pug, don't you? There
aren't so very many of them about now, though. They used to be the
favorite lap-dogs, but somehow the Poms and the Pekes have come in to
take their place. It is a very old breed and its ancestors were
probably brought from China by the Dutch who later introduced it into
England. Fawn used to be the popular color, but black has been in
favor for several years.
"Now these are what we call miniatures, because they are merely dwarfs
of larger breeds. The toy Manchester or black-and-tan was bred from
the large Manchester terrier and should look just like his big
brother, only he should weigh less than seven pounds. Same way with
the toy bull terrier. The miniature bulldog was developed sixty years
or more ago by the lace workers of Nottingham, England."
The boys were much interested in the next picture, which showed the
tiniest sort of a dog sitting in a glass tumbler.
"Why," said Jack, "he looks more like a rat than a dog."
"It's a real dog, nevertheless," said Mrs. Hartshorn, "though probably
the smallest breed in the world. It's a Chihuahua, pronounced
Che-wa-wa, and it comes from Mexico. They weigh from a pound and a
half to about four pounds, about as much as a kitten. Of course,
they're rather delicate, and I doubt if you could expect one to attack
a tramp. The head is round as an apple, with pointed nose and big,
outstanding ears. The Chihuahua always has a little soft spot in the
top of the skull.
"Now we come to the long-haired toys, which are the most popular at
the present time. I believe the Pomeranian is the most popular of them
all. He is really a small spitz and came first from Germany. You
noticed Tip's compact little body, fox-like head, and alert
expression. A wonderful little dog. His chief glory is his fine,
fluffy coat and mane.
"Then there are the English toy spaniels. They used to be all called
King Charles spaniels and were named after Charles II of England, who
was very fond of them. Now the authorities have divided them into four
varieties according to color, though they are all the same breed. The
Blenheim is red or orange and white, the ruby is chestnut red, the
King Charles is black and tan, and the Prince Charles is
tri-color--black, white, and tan.
[Illustration: Pekingese]
"The Pekingese is another of the very popular ones. A brave, proud
little chap, as he should be, for he was the pet of Chinese emperors
for hundreds of years. The first ones were brought to England in 1860
when the Europeans took the city of Peking and sacked the royal
palaces. Before that time they had been carefully guarded as sacred
animals. You see they look somewhat different from the English toy
spaniel. The head is flatter, for one thing.
"The Japanese spaniel is still different, though he is probably
related to the Peke. He has been the pet of the Japs for centuries.
The colors are black and white or red and white, and the weight is
seven pounds, more or less. This snowy white one, with his bright
little face, is a Maltese dog. He also has an ancient lineage. He was
known in ancient Greece and Rome and has been in England since the
time of Henry VIII. You saw my toy poodle. It's just a miniature of
the big poodle and has been popular in France and England for over a
century. Very popular here now, too.
"Now we come to the last of the more prominent breeds of toys, and the
only one with a wire coat. He comes from Belgium and he's called the
Brussels griffon. Don't you love his little monkey face, with its
beard and mustache? He's a hardy, intelligent, affectionate little
dog, too. Some folks think he's the smartest of all the toys.
"There," she concluded, passing them the book to look over again, "I
guess you've had enough for one day. You'll begin to think I'm as bad
as my husband. But I didn't want you to get the idea that the only
real dog is a big dog. Don't you think that some of these toy breeds
deserve some respect, now that you know something of their honorable
history?"
"Well, I should say so," said Ernest. "I had no idea there were so
many different kinds or that they had any special history. I want to
see those Pekes again, whose grandfathers were stolen from the
Chinese emperors."
The interest in toys had been kindled, and the boys took occasion
later to refresh their memories from books that Mr. Hartshorn lent
them, but when Ernest and Jack reached home that afternoon the toy
breeds were swept entirely out of their minds for the time being. For
Romulus appeared to be ailing and Remus was evidently quite sick.
The two setter puppies had been growing rapidly and had been allowed
to run out in the yard as the April days grew warmer. They had lost
some of their puppy awkwardness though none of their puppy
playfulness, and were fast developing into strong-boned, active dogs.
They had begun to appear more devoted to their young masters, too, and
to understand better the meaning of the words they were expected to
obey. Needless to say, the boys had become deeply attached to them.
There is nothing more pitiful to look at than a sick dog, and there
was something very sad in the way these two rollicking, healthy
puppies were so suddenly stricken down. The boys, not finding them in
the yard, had gone at once to Rome. There lay Remus on the bed,
breathing with difficulty, and recognizing their approach only by a
raising of his brows and a pathetic little effort to wag his tail.
Romulus came to greet them a little weakly, but he, too, looked very
forlorn and somehow very thin and little. Both dogs seemed to be
running from the eyes and nose and to be suffering from feverish
colds.
"Oh, Ernest," cried Jack, the tears coming to his eyes at the sight of
their suffering, "they're sick. Whatever shall we do?"
"I don't know," said Ernest. "I don't know what you do for a sick dog.
We will ask father. He'll be home soon."
Mr. Whipple came out to look at the dogs soon after his return, but he
was unable to suggest anything very helpful. He prescribed warm milk
for dinner, and the puppies both drank it, though without much
enthusiasm. That night the boys spread burlap blankets over the dogs
and went to bed with heavy hearts.
The next morning and the morning after Romulus and Remus did not seem
to be any better, nor, luckily, very much worse. The boys did what
they could for them, keeping them warm and feeding them beef soup and
warm milk, but they did not seem to be making much progress with the
cure. So on Monday Ernest sent another postal card to Sam Bumpus,
begging him to come down and look at the dogs. They had infinite
confidence in Sam.
He did not fail them, and on Tuesday afternoon after the boys had
come home from school Sam appeared. By this time both dogs were pretty
sick. They had lost flesh and looked pitifully thin and weak and wan.
They seemed to have trouble breathing and to be affected by other
complications. They looked up at their young masters with big,
pathetic eyes, as though pleading for help in their affliction.
The boys watched Sam anxiously as he examined the dogs. His face was
grave.
"It's distemper," said he. "I was afraid it was. Distemper's no joke;
it's the dog's worst enemy. Sometimes it runs into pneumonia, or the
dogs die in fits, or just waste away and give up. But cheer up; I've
seen lots of 'em pull through, and we'll try to save these two. You've
done the right thing so far. Careful nursin' does it. Keep 'em dry and
out of draughts and keep up their strength with good food, easy to
digest. Most dogs that die of distemper die because they didn't have
strength enough to last 'em through. The disease has to have its run,
and in time it just naturally runs out. That's the way I look at it.
It don't do much good to try to cure 'em with medicine. As I say, it's
the nursin' does the trick. Still, some folks believe in givin'
quinine and you can do that if you want to. It's a tonic and it can't
do any harm if you don't give too much. And keep their eyes and noses
washed out with boracic acid."
"Is this place all right for them?" asked Ernest.
"Sure," said Sam. "It's a good place, now that the weather is mild.
The more fresh air the better, so long as it ain't damp or too cold or
draughty. You keep fussin' over 'em and let me know how they get
along. Give 'em plenty of clean water and feed 'em a good deal of milk
porridge several times a day. Better cut out the solid food till
they're better."
For nearly two weeks the boys watched the progress of the disease with
aching hearts. Sometimes the symptoms seemed less acute and they felt
hopeful; then again the condition of their patients was such as to
frighten them. They spent all their spare time with the puppies, in
spite of their mother's anxiety lest they catch the disease
themselves. Their father, however, was quite positive that human
beings could not take distemper from dogs.
A deep cloud of anxiety hung over the Whipple home during those days,
even Mrs. Whipple feeling the effects of it. There was no running and
romping about the house; no longer the rooms echoed with boyish shouts
and laughter. Each morning Ernest and Jack awoke with a feeling that
something awful was impending. It seemed sometimes as though the dogs
had always been sick and that they would never get well. Sometimes the
tension would become too great for Jack and he would cry as though
his heart would break.
"Oh, Ernest," he would sob, "what should I do if Remus died?"
And Ernest would have to struggle hard to keep from joining in the
tears of his younger brother. The boys had come to love their dogs,
and it seemed as though the puppies looked to them alone to save them.
It is that way with dogs and people--that is, the people who care for
dogs. And when once the wonderful tie has been formed between boy and
dog it grows ever stronger. It becomes an ennobling thing.
Romulus developed a distressing cough, but after about ten days of
suffering he began to show signs of improvement. He ate with greater
relish and seemed brighter and stronger. Gradually the symptoms of the
disease lessened and as the days went by Ernest became more and more
happily convinced that he was really getting well. But with poor Remus
it was different. The distemper seemed unwilling to relax its hold on
him and his digestive system became so disordered that he could not
gain the much needed strength from his food. Jack spent all the time
he could beside the little sufferer, easing his head and bathing his
eyes and nose, and listening with helpless agony to the labored
breathing.
Suddenly, one afternoon, Remus struggled to his feet and staggered
uncertainly for a few steps. His half-closed eyes were glassy and did
not seem to see what he was looking at. He lurched into the wall in a
way that made Romulus take to a corner in fear. Then he ran a few
steps aimlessly and toppled over, his muscles twitching dreadfully and
his feet scratching the floor.
Jack was terribly frightened and called to Ernest, who came running
in. Both boys thought that Remus was surely dying, but after a while
he grew quieter and Jack lifted him tenderly back upon the bed.
"I guess it was a fit," said Ernest. "Sam told about that, you know."
"Oh, what shall we do?" wailed Jack in despair. "We _must_ do
something, Ernest."
Ernest thought for a moment, and then an idea came to him.
"I'll telephone Mr. Hartshorn," said he. "He might know what to do,
and I don't believe he'd mind. He wouldn't want a dog to die."
"Oh, please do," begged Jack.
Mr. Hartshorn was not home, but Mrs. Hartshorn, who answered the
telephone, was very sympathetic.
"I'm so sorry he's had convulsions," said she. "It's a bad sign. I'm
sorry Mr. Hartshorn is away. I know just how it is, though, for I've
sat up all night with dogs sick like that, more than once. I'll send
Tom Poultice right over. He's a better dog doctor in his way than a
good many vets., and he may be able to help you."
Ernest thanked the kind lady very heartily, and Tom Poultice came that
very evening. Mr. Whipple lighted a lantern and they all went out to
Rome. Tom examined both dogs and pronounced Romulus to be on the mend.
"'E'll be all right," said Tom, "if 'e don't take cold or get upset.
But this other one, 'e's in a bad way, I'm afraid."
Then he took Remus up, looked into his eyes and throat, and felt of
his stomach and of the pulse under his forelegs.
"'E's got to be straightened out first," said he. "'Ave you any castor
oil?"
Tom administered the castor oil in a thoroughly efficient manner and
then sent Ernest into the house to beg a little hot tea and a raw egg
from Delia. The puppy took the tea quite eagerly and lapped some of
the egg.
"Give 'im a little of this as often as 'e'll take it," said Tom, "and
telephone me to-morrow 'ow 'e seems. If 'e gets stronger, we'll give
'im something else. If the castor oil don't work, we'll 'ave to give
'im calomel or a compound cathartic pill, though I 'ate to do that
if I don't 'ave to. Calomel's terrible strong stuff for a sick puppy.
'Ow long 'as 'e been sick?"
"About two weeks," said Jack.
"That's about the course of it," said Tom. "If 'e ain't better in a
day or two now, 'e'll be gone. I wish I'd tackled 'im before. Well,
give 'im these pills, one to-night and three to-morrow, during the
day, and keep me posted."
"What are these pills composed of?" inquired Mr. Whipple, who was
taking a lively interest in proceedings.
"I 'ave 'em made up myself, sir," said Tom. "It's an old receipt I
learned in Hengland. I ain't much on medicine myself, but sometimes
this 'elps, especially if it's used earlier. There's thirty drops of
acetate of ammonia in each pill, fifteen drops of sweet spirits of
nitre, and two grains of salicylate of soda. It's better to give 'em
in a little camphor water."
The boys followed Tom's directions faithfully. In the morning they
found Remus lying against the door of Rome, quite exhausted, and there
were signs that he had had another convulsion during the night. But
during the day the castor oil got in its effect and there was no need
for the calomel. Remus seemed more able and willing to take his tea
and egg, and though no gain in strength was to be noted that day, he
had no more convulsions.
Recovery was slow but sure for Remus from that time on, while Romulus
mended rapidly, and it was not long before he was running about the
yard again. Remus gained strength very slowly and for a long time was
troubled by a cough and upset digestion, but as the days went by and
he suffered no serious relapse Jack's buoyant nature responded and he
was glad with hope once more. Tom Poultice came again to offer
encouragement and advice, and when Sam Bumpus visited Rome unannounced
one afternoon and was told what had happened, he proved himself to be
most generous in his praise of Tom's skill.
"I don't know this English feller," said he, "but when it comes to
doctorin' sick pups, I've got to hand it to him. When you see him
again give him old Sam's best regards and tell him I'll vote for him
next election whether he's runnin' or not."
Sam was in a jovial mood and the boys were in the humor to laugh
heartily at anything he said. The tension was broken, the days of
anxiety were past, and sunshine again filled the house on Washburn
Street.
"It's just like a toothache when it's over, ain't it?" said Sam.
As for Jack, he hugged the emaciated little Remus close to his
breast, and, with big tears of happiness in his eyes, kissed the
tousled little head. Remus gave a little, human-sounding whimper and
licked Jack's hand. That was the only way he knew to express his love
and gratitude, but Jack understood.
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.
[Illustration: Great Dane]
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."
[Illustration: Toy Poodle]
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."
CHAPTER VIII
DOG DAYS
By June both Romulus and Remus were in full health again and Mr.
Whipple admitted that they began to look like real English setters.
They were puppies still, full of fun and mischief, but their coats had
lost some of their fuzzy, silky character and their bodies had
lengthened and filled out. They had gained a greater control over
their muscles and in their gambols about the yard they had acquired
considerable speed. Sam Bumpus came down again to look at them and
pronounced them likely-looking youngsters.
"They've got some growin' to do yet," said he, "but they're gainin'
bone and speed every day, and the first thing you know you'll have two
fine bird dogs, or I don't know what I'm talking about."
They also displayed increasing devotion to their masters and had begun
to develop, to a certain extent, the qualities of watchdogs.
It was about this time that Jack Whipple made an extraordinary and
alarming discovery. He noticed one day that Remus was having some sort
of trouble with his mouth, as though he had perhaps got a piece of
bone wedged in his teeth. He worked his jaws in a laughable manner and
poked at them with his paw. Then he shook his head, ejected a small
white object, and appeared relieved.
Thinking it must be a piece of bone, Jack picked it up and examined
it. It was a tooth! He called Ernest, and after poking about in Rome,
they discovered another tooth in the sawdust beside the food dish.
They proceeded to examine both dogs, and in Romulus's mouth they found
another loose tooth which came out in Ernest's fingers.
"Why," cried Jack, "they're losing all their teeth. How will they eat?
How can they do anything?"
Ernest was equally puzzled, and that evening they told their father
about it. He also seemed perplexed.
"I'm afraid I can't help you," said he. "You'd better consult Tom
Poultice or Sam Bumpus. Perhaps there's some disease that loosens
dogs' teeth. Possibly it's the result of the distemper. I understand
there are sometimes after-effects of that, such as deafness, and it
may cause a dropping of the teeth. You'd better see about it before it
goes any further."
The boys had been planning for some little time to take the two dogs
up to Sam's shack, since they now seemed old and strong enough to
stand the journey, and it would be good fun for all concerned. So
Ernest sent Sam word that they were coming, and on a bright, warm
Saturday morning the four of them set out.
The sky was clear and blue, a light breeze tempered the warmth of the
brilliant sunshine, and it was a joy just to be alive and out in the
open. The boys had their hands full, for Romulus and Remus had never
before enjoyed so much liberty, and they did not always answer
promptly the recalling whistle. The world, this great, new world,
seemed to hold so many sights and sounds and scents to interest a dog
that their impulse was to keep going and searching and never turn
back. But it was a pleasure just to watch the zest with which they
investigated every thicket and hillock. As they trotted along,
twisting and doubling and turning, their noses held now high, sniffing
the breeze, now close to the ground, they seemed to develop something
of that lithe grace of movement that characterized the actions of
their mother and old Nan.
When they arrived at their destination, the dogs were at first much
excited by the presence of so many others of their kind, but after a
little while they were glad to take a long drink of water and to rest
on the floor of the shack.
Sam, as usual, was smiling and cordial. "They're comin' on; they're
comin' on," said he, patting the young dogs and observing their
sinewy limbs, their sensitive nostrils, and their soft, intelligent
eyes. "Been teachin' 'em to hunt on the way up?"
The boys were forced to admit that they had made little progress with
the vocational training of Romulus and Remus.
"Well, there's plenty of time for that," said Sam. "They've got to get
the sense of the fields and the woods first. You get 'em so they'll
come when they're called, and a little later on I'll have time to take
'em in hand and teach 'em the fine points of the game. How have they
been, anyway? They're lookin' as sound as nuts."
"They've been very well," answered Ernest, "except for one thing. We
don't know what's the trouble, but their teeth are dropping out."
"Their teeth----" began Sam, and then burst into a roar of laughter,
in which the boys presently joined, though they did not know why.
"Don't you worry about them teeth," said he, when he could speak
again. "I'll bet it wasn't so very long ago that Jack here had the
very same trouble. Didn't you know that dogs lose their first teeth
the same as boys do? Sure thing. Some folks are a good deal troubled
about it and pull out the loose teeth for fear the dogs will swallow
them, but it ain't likely to hurt 'em if they do. Just let 'em alone
and nature will look out for 'em. New and stronger teeth will grow
in their places and then they'll be fixed for life."
The boys, relieved to find that the matter was not serious, laughed
again.
"I guess this joke's on father, too," said Ernest.
This trip to Sam's shack was the first of a number of excursions
thither which Sam seemed to enjoy as much as the boys and the dogs.
And when vacation time came and every day was like Saturday, Ernest
and Jack Whipple came to understand better what it really means to
have good dogs for constant companions. It was in these days that
visits to the swimming hole over by the brickyard began, and Romulus
and Remus were taught to enjoy the water as much as their masters did.
This swimming hole, in fact, proved to be the accepted meeting place
for most of the boys and dogs of Boytown, for it became a regular
practice for the boys to bring their dogs and to invent various
aquatic sports in which the dogs played an important part. Old Mike
hated the water and could scarcely be induced to go in, but most of
the others entered into the spirit of the game with zest. Little Alert
proved to be a regular cork in the water, and even huge Hamlet
splashed about in a dignified sort of way. But the general favorite
was Rags. He could dive for stones, retrieve sticks, and even stand
up in the water, with his fore feet pawing the air in a manner to
bring laughter to the soberest. And he had a way of devising sport of
his own, not always respecting the sanctity of the boys' clothing.
I don't know how it is with other boys, but it is certain that the
constant association with faithful four-footed comrades was good for
the boys of Boytown. Boys are often thoughtless to an extent that
verges upon cruelty. They love to tease and often find amusement in
inventing new trials for a much-enduring cat or dog. But once let them
get the idea of comradeship and protection firmly fixed, and not
infrequently a sort of chivalry appears to develop in their natures.
At least it was so with these boys. They quarreled and disputed and
occasionally fought, as boys will, but there was no more torturing of
animals, and with this came less bullying of little boys and teasing
of little girls. Each boy felt the responsibility of protecting his
own beloved dog, and with this came a sense of protection toward all
animals. Mrs. Hammond, Theron's mother, was wise enough to observe and
take advantage of this, and she organized the boys into a sort of
Humane Society, with meetings every two weeks, and a set of rules and
objects. They were pledged to do what they could to see that no dumb
animal was abused, and more than once they were able to dissuade a
brutal teamster from beating an overburdened horse. In only one
quarter did they totally fail. Dick Wheat on would neither join the
Humane Society nor would he mend his ways in regard to his treatment
of Gyp. But at least he never attempted to abuse any other animal
whenever any of the boys were about, after having received a good
licking at the hands of Jimmie Rogers for annoying Rags. That taught
him a much needed lesson.
If every boy in America could be taught to be as kind to animals as
these boys were, and to interest himself personally in their
treatment, this would be a better world to live in.
So the summer vacation days passed, with plenty of outdoor fun, the
boys forming an ever closer comradeship with their common interest,
and Romulus and Remus gaining in strength and wisdom every day. For
the most part they were healthy dogs and gave their masters little
concern on that score, though sometimes their tendency to get into
mischief required attention, for Mrs. Whipple was not reconciled to
their presence about her house and it was necessary to keep watch lest
they offend beyond the chance of pardon. The day they brought Delia to
the verge of tears by tearing a clean sheet from the clothesline and
clashing with it about a muddy yard would have produced a disastrous
crisis if Mr. Whipple had not once more intervened.
Once or twice the two dogs had to be doctored again for worms, and in
August came the pest of fleas. This was a source of annoyance to both
boys and dogs, and Mrs. Whipple, when she found it out, was in
constant fear lest the insects be introduced into the house. When
Ernest or Jack discovered one on their own persons at night they left
no stone unturned to capture and decapitate it.
As to the dogs, they suffered not a little. Their long coats made a
splendid breeding place for the parasites and they wore themselves
thin with scratching. Fleas are not a pleasant thing to talk about,
but all dogs get them, especially the long-haired kinds, and not even
frequent visits to the swimming hole will eradicate them.
It was Sam Bumpus who told the boys what to do about it. One day, when
they went up to visit him, he refused to let Romulus and Remus into
the shack or near his kennels.
"They're full of fleas," said he as he watched the dogs scratching
nervously, "and I don't want 'em to be droppin' 'em around where my
dogs'll get 'em. I have trouble enough with the varmints as 'tis. You
ought to get rid of 'em. If you don't, they'll hang on till November
and the dogs'll be no good for huntin'."
"But how do you get rid of them?" asked Ernest.
"Wash 'em in cresolin or cresoleum or whatever your druggist wants to
call it. He'll know what you want when you tell him. Mix it with warm
water and soapsuds and scrub 'em good. Then rub 'em dry. Do it
outdoors on the grass. It's better than insect powder. It won't kill
all the eggs, but it will drive the fleas off, and if you keep at it,
and do it often enough, you'll get rid of 'em all. Besides, it gives
the dogs some relief before the new ones can hatch. Better burn their
beds once in awhile, too, to kill the eggs in 'em."
The boys faithfully followed Sam's instructions and were pleased to
find the trouble greatly abated.
It was in August, too, that they took Romulus and Remus for their
first trip to Willowdale. They were anxious to learn what Mr. and Mrs.
Hartshorn and Tom Poultice would think of their dogs, and they were
always glad of an excuse to visit the bull terriers and Airedales and
to listen to doggy talk.
Luckily, Mr. Hartshorn was at home on this occasion, though they paid
their respects first to Tom and the kennels before going up to the big
house. Tom had not seen the two setters since they had recovered from
the distemper, and he was pleased to be frankly enthusiastic.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" he exclaimed. "And are these the same two
dogs that I doctored in your barn last spring? They were sad enough
looking pictures then. The bally rascals! They sure 'ave grown some.
Hi'd like nothing better than to take 'em out some day myself on a bit
of an 'unt. Look at the legs of 'em! Say, you've got two fine bird
dogs there."
Naturally the boys were much pleased by Tom's praise of their beloved
dogs, and they lingered for a time about the kennels while Tom pointed
out to them the fine points in a setter's action and explained how
their graceful, level gait enabled them to keep their noses out in
front where they would catch the scent, and at the same time cover
rough country at high speed.
"Hi've 'eard it said," remarked Tom, "that an 'unting pointer can
travel at the rate of eighteen miles an hour and keep it up for two or
three hours, and I guess a good setter's about as fast."
"My!" exclaimed Jack, joyfully, as they walked over to the house, "do
you s'pose we've got the two very best dogs in the world, Ernest?"
"I don't know," said Ernest. "Maybe."
The ardor was cooled a trifle by Mr. Hartshorn. He examined Romulus
and Remus in a minute, judicial, critical manner, and discovered a
number of technical points in which they fell short of perfection.
"But," he added, "they're mighty good dogs, and you must remember that
no dog is absolutely perfect from the show judge's standpoint. And if
these come from as fine a working strain as you have led me to
believe, it is remarkable that they should measure up so well by
bench-show standards. Some of the finest show champions are
second-rate dogs in the field, and some of the best hunting and
field-tried dogs couldn't win a yellow ribbon on the bench. I should
say that your dogs gave promise of developing both working and show
qualities to a marked degree, and I shall watch their careers with
great interest. You have a brace of fine dogs there, and no mistake."
Whereat Jack and Ernest felt better.
"You promised to tell us something about setters and other bird dogs,"
Ernest reminded him.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm not sure that I know so very much
about them. I used to do a little shooting years ago, but your friend
Bumpus undoubtedly knows a lot more about the game than I do."
"Oh, yes," said Ernest, "he does know a lot about hunting and training
dogs, but I mean about the breeds themselves, their history and the
sort of things you told us about some of the other breeds."
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'll do the best I can. The development
of the setter is an interesting story, but first we'll have to go
back to the spaniels. Spaniels, you know, are still classed as
shooting or gun dogs, and are used for that to some extent, and the
setter's ancestor was a spaniel.
"The spaniel first came from Spain or France and there are still many
kinds on the continent of Europe. But the spaniel has been known for a
long time in England, too, and the kinds we know here are those of
British development. Mrs. Hartshorn has already told you about the
English toy spaniels, so I will omit those.
"In the early days, the breeds weren't divided up as they are to-day,
but were known as large and small land spaniels and water spaniels.
The oldest of the land spaniels of England now in existence is the
Sussex spaniel. You won't see any in the United States, I think.
"The clumber spaniel you can see in our shows, but he also is more
popular among the sportsmen and fanciers of England than here. He is
the heaviest of the spaniels. The cocker spaniel is the most popular
kind in this country. His name comes from the fact that he was used in
England for many years for hunting woodcock. He is smaller than the
others. The field spaniel is much like a large-sized cocker, weighing
about twice as much. Finally there is the curly, brown Irish water
spaniel, which is really more closely related to the retriever and
the poodle than to the other spaniels.
"Though spaniels are sporting dogs, they have always been enjoyed
quite as much for their companionship, and they have an enviable
reputation for fidelity. There is a story told of a spaniel of the
time of the French Revolution which reminds one of Greyfriars Bobby.
This dog belonged to a magistrate who was condemned for conspiracy and
was thrown into prison. By means of his coaxing and pretty ways, the
spaniel at last won the heart of one of the jailers and managed to get
in to his master. He never left him after that, even crouching between
his knees when the magistrate was guillotined. He followed the body to
its burial and tried to dig into the grave. Obliged at last to abandon
hope of ever seeing his master again, he refused to eat, and died at
length, of hunger and exposure, on his master's grave.
"Another sad story of devotion is that of a spaniel belonging to the
gamekeeper of the Rev. Mr. Corseillis of Wivenhoe, Essex, England.
This dog's name was Dash, and he was his master's constant companion
at night, when he was able to render valuable service in helping to
detect poachers. When the old gamekeeper died, nothing could persuade
Dash to accompany his successor on his rounds. He divided his time
between the grave and the room in which his master had died, and at
last he, too, died of a broken heart.
"Let me give you a more cheerful one before we pass on to the setters.
Once when Mrs. Grosvenor of Richmond went to visit a relative who
owned some pet cats, she took her Blenheim spaniel with her. The cats,
who were selfish, spoiled creatures, were too many for the small
spaniel, and they succeeded in driving him out of the house. But he
refused to acknowledge defeat. He proceeded to establish an alliance
with the gardener's cat, a big, husky Tom, and when the time was ripe,
the two of them attacked and routed their common enemy, after which
the spaniel was let alone.
"Now we come to the setters. In some respects they are our finest gun
dogs. They came from one of the old land spaniels that was taught to
crouch when finding game and they were called setting spaniels until
about 1800. Since then the breed has been greatly improved. There are
three well-known varieties, English, Irish, and Gordon, all
first-class dogs.
"A man named Laverack in Shropshire, England, was the one who did the
most to develop the English setter. He bred them from 1825 to 1875 and
produced the standard strain. Later a man named Llewellyn promoted the
strain and added new blood. You will still hear the names Laverack
and Llewellyn applied to different types of English setters. This
English variety is the most popular and numerous of the three.
"I don't want to make any unpleasant comparisons, but to my mind the
Irish setter is the handsomest of the family, though as a sporting dog
he does not rank with the English setter. His shape is very nearly the
same as that of the English setter, but his coat is always a wonderful
red-brown, almost golden when the sun shines on it, often very dark,
but with no black spots.
"The Gordon setter is the heaviest of the three and comes from a
strain developed a century ago by the Duke of Richmond Gordon, a
Scotchman. The color is always rich black and tan.
"These are not the only bird dogs, however. There are the retrievers
and the pointer, besides some European breeds, but I'm going to save
them for another time. I've got to get ready to catch a train now, and
besides, I'm afraid of giving you this sort of information in too
large a chunk."
Mr. Hartshorn bade them good-by and went upstairs. The boys remained a
few minutes longer with Mrs. Hartshorn, who had taken a great fancy to
Romulus and Remus, and then they set off for home in the hot sun of
the afternoon.
CHAPTER IX
THE TRAINING OF ROMULUS
On the way back from Thornboro that day something happened that gave a
new direction to the thoughts and aspirations of Ernest and Jack
Whipple. They had gone somewhat out of their way to a woods road that
was shadier and cooler than the highway and Romulus was nosing and
sniffing about in the underbrush quite a little distance to the left.
Ernest whistled, but Romulus apparently did not hear. He seemed to be
darting about in the bushes with unusual eagerness.
"What has he found, do you s'pose?" asked Jack.
"Let's go and see," said Ernest.
The two boys and Remus turned out of the road and approached the spot
where Romulus was hunting. Suddenly there was a whir of wings and a
dark object flashed upward and disappeared among the trees.
For a moment Romulus and Remus both stood rigid, with heads and tails
outstretched. Then they broke and disappeared in the woods. It was
some little time before the boys could get them back again and
started along the homeward road. The boys, breathless with running,
had not spoken to each other, but now Ernest said:
"It was some kind of a bird, Jack. Did you notice?"
"Yes," said Jack. "Why, Ernest, they know how to hunt already."
"I guess it's instinct," said Ernest. "And did you see them point?
They really did, for a minute, just like Sam's Nan, or the pictures in
the books."
"Oh, Ernest," cried Jack, "we must take them hunting. Do you s'pose we
could?"
"Sam could, anyway," said the older boy. "He said he'd train them."
The rest of the way home they talked of nothing but hunting and the
wonderful achievements that were in store for the two dogs.
Mr. Whipple approved the plan to have Romulus and Remus trained. A
good dog, in his eyes, was a dog that was good for something, and he
recognized the value of a well-trained bird dog though he had no
desire to see the boys become too fond of hunting themselves.
"All right," said he, "take them up to Bumpus and let him train them,
but you boys must promise not to ask to handle a gun yourselves.
You're not old enough, for one thing, and besides, your mother
doesn't approve of shooting. It's a dangerous business at best.
Remember, now, no nonsense about guns."
The boys, willing to postpone that question till some future time,
readily promised, and on a Saturday morning in September, soon after
the reopening of school, they took the dogs up to Sam's shack.
"Remember," said Sam, "I ain't promisin' anything. You never can tell
what kind of a bird dog a setter will make till you've tried him out.
I've got a lot of other things to attend to this fall, too. But I'll
do the best I can, and you mustn't be impatient if they ain't all
finished off in two weeks. Now we'll take 'em out for their first
lesson."
That first lesson proved to be a rather tedious affair to Ernest and
Jack. Nothing was said about birds or guns, pointing or retrieving.
Sam's chief aim was to get the dogs to obey his word and whistle as
well as they obeyed those of the boys, and the latter were forced to
keep silent while he gradually gained the mastery over the two lively
young dogs. Sam displayed, in this, much greater patience than the
boys did, but still it was pleasant to be out in the fields this fine
September day and to watch the dogs as they came to respond more and
more readily to the commands of their trainer. At first, indeed, there
was but one command, expressed by a sharp whistle or by the words
"Come here, boy!" Sam seemed determined to add no further commands
until he had secured unfailing and prompt obedience to this one. But,
slow as the process was, it was really remarkable what progress was
made in a few short hours.
At noon they took the dogs back to the shack to enjoy a rest and a dry
bone apiece, while Sam cooked and served a delicious luncheon of
buckwheat cakes, bacon, and cocoa. Then, after he had enjoyed a pipe
or two and they had listened to some of his tales of dogs and hunting,
they started out again.
This time Sam fastened a cord of good length to the dogs' collars,
something they were not used to.
"I'll need to use this later on," said he, "and they've got to get
used to the feel of it first. They've got to learn to stand it without
pullin', and to answer the signals."
Again he exhibited extraordinary patience, for the dogs resented this
unaccustomed restraint and seemed possessed to pull at their leads and
try to break away. It took a good two hours to break them to this
simple harness. Then Sam took it off and went all over the first
lesson again, which at first the dogs appeared to have forgotten.
"Well, as the minister says, here endeth the first lesson," said Sam
when the shadows of late afternoon began to lengthen, and they
turned back again toward the shack. The boys now realized that they
were very tired.
"Do you think they'll ever learn?" asked Jack, somewhat plaintively.
"Why, sure," said Sam. "I've seen worse ones than these. They're high
spirited, as good dogs ought to be, and a bit heady, but they'll
learn. They've done very well, so far."
Still doubting, but somewhat encouraged, the boys prepared to take
their departure. In order that the training might go on uninterrupted
it was necessary to leave Romulus and Remus in Sam's care, and it is a
question which felt the worse about the separation, the boys or the
dogs. Ernest and Jack knew that their pets would be in good hands and
kindly treated, but it was hard to say good-by. As for the dogs, they
set up a howling and crying, when they found they were being deserted.
"They'll soon get over that," said Sam. "They'll begin to take an
interest in the other dogs pretty soon, and then they'll feel more at
home."
Thus reassured, the boys started off down the road without their
four-footed comrades, but the insistent wails that followed them were
very heart-rending, and two big tears rolled down Jack's round cheeks.
And it was several days before they could get used to the desolate,
deserted look of Rome or become reconciled to the absence of their
playmates.
They could hardly wait for the next Saturday to come, when they could
go up again to Sam's shack and visit their beloved dogs. Romulus and
Remus were overjoyed at seeing them again, and it was some time before
Sam could get them quieted down sufficiently to take them out for
another lesson. He had been training them during the week, and the
boys now heard him addressing them with strange words. He placed their
check-cords on again, and this time the dogs did not seem to resent it
so much. Indeed, they seemed to look upon it as the preliminary of a
good time, which, as Sam explained, was the idea he had tried to
impress on them.
"Hie-on!" cried Sam, and the dogs started off at a bound.
"To-ho!" he called. This meant to stop abruptly, and this command the
dogs, hoping for a good run, did not obey so readily. A quick tug at
the check-cord reminded them of the meaning of the command, and soon
they stopped more promptly at the words.
"Come in," said Sam, and the dogs approached him.
"Charge!" said Sam. "Down!" After several attempts the dogs
reluctantly obeyed and crouched at his feet.
"Heel!" he cried, and after several repetitions of the order they took
their places quietly behind him.
"They're always a little slower the first thing in the mornin'," Sam
explained, "before they've run off some of their deviltry. They'll
improve as they go along."
And improve they did. In the afternoon Sam took them out without the
check-cord and kept perseveringly at them until they would "hie-on"
and "to-ho" and "charge" and "heel" with reasonable promptness.
"By next week I hope to show you something more," said Sam.
"When will you shoot over them and teach them to point?" asked Ernest.
"Oh, not for some time yet," said Sam. "They've got to learn the a b c
of it first. Next I shall try to teach them to answer my hand. First
I'll call and wave at the same time, and then just wave. Then they've
got to learn to range--to go whichever direction I want 'em to and
turn when I want 'em to. Then I'll give 'em lessons in retrievin'."
But before another Saturday had come around, Sam had discovered
something--something which affected the whole future career of Remus.
Ernest and Jack had duties to perform that Saturday which engaged them
the entire morning, and they were unable to go up to Sam's until
afternoon. Their visit was consequently a short one and they had but
little time to spend with Sam in the field. They found, however, that
the training had been progressing satisfactorily. Sam was allowing the
dogs to range in ever widening circles, and on the whole they were
obeying his commands in a promising manner. They were beginning to
retrieve objects, also, not as a hit-or-miss game after the manner of
Rags, but in answer to the commands "Go fetch it," and "Pick it up."
Moreover, the dogs were less homesick now that they had begun to take
an interest in their occupations and to become acquainted with the
other dogs. They seemed to understand, too, that Ernest and Jack had
not utterly deserted them but might be expected to appear at almost
any moment.
But when it came time to go home Sam detained them for a moment.
"I've got to tell you something," said he, scratching his chin and
looking a bit unhappy, "and I don't believe you'll like it much."
"Oh," cried Ernest, "can't you keep the dogs?"
"I can keep Romulus," said Sam, "but I've got to ask you to take Remus
back. I've given him every chance and I find he's hopeless as a bird
dog. He learns quick enough--quicker than Romulus if anything. But
he's got no nose, none at all, and a setter with no nose is about
useless in the field. It would be a waste of time to try to train
him, and when we got on the birds he would only get in Romulus's way
and spoil him. So I guess you'll have to take him back and let me go
ahead with the good one."
"Why, what do you mean?" inquired Jack, struggling to hide his
disappointment. "Can't he smell?"
"Oh, I s'pose he can tell spoiled fish when he gets it, but he don't
catch the scent of anything on the air. I guess it was the distemper
that did it. He had it worse than Romulus and it often spoils their
noses when they have it hard enough. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped
and it can't be cured."
For a few minutes Jack stood silent, pressing his lips together. Then
suddenly he knelt down beside Remus and hugged him passionately.
"I don't care whether you've got a nose or not, Remus," he cried. "I
don't want to go hunting, ever. Noses don't matter. You're the best
dog in the whole world, anyhow."
And so they took Remus back with them that afternoon, leaving Romulus
behind, howling mournfully for his brother.
Such reports as they received from Sam indicated that the training of
Romulus proceeded with fair rapidity during the fall. They were not
able to go up to his shack very often for one reason or another, and
Jack, at least, was not so anxious to do so as he had been. Remus
lived in solitary luxury in Rome and was in some danger of being
spoiled by the petting he received from his loyal master.
Romulus, so Ernest learned, could now retrieve at command and would
bring back a dead pigeon or other bird without rumpling its feathers.
He would also range in obedience to a wave of Sam's hand and was
gradually learning to stand fast and hold his point when he flushed a
covey of birds. Finally Sam took out his gun to shoot over him, and
the rest of his training was to be chiefly that persistent practice
which finally makes perfect.
It was decided that Romulus should remain with Sam until snow fell,
but one night there came a scratching and a whining at the door and a
series of peculiar short little barks so persistently kept up that
they awakened both the boys. They slipped on their dressing gowns and
slippers and stole downstairs.
At the door they found Romulus with a broken bit of rope tied to his
collar.
"Why," cried Jack, "it's Romulus. See, he must have broken away."
"He came all the way home alone in the dark," said Ernest. "How do you
s'pose he ever found his way?"
Romulus seemed to understand that it was not the time to make a noise,
for though he kept leaping on the boys in an access of delight and
making little sounds in his throat that were almost human, he
refrained from the loud, joyous barking that he would have indulged in
if it had been daytime. Remus had heard him, however, and was making a
considerable commotion in Rome. So the boys took Romulus quietly out
to his brother, who greeted him with paw and tongue and voice, and
bidding both dogs goodnight, they went back to the house.
So it was decided that if Romulus so much desired his own home, he
should be deprived of it no longer. Sam came down in a day or two to
find out about it.
"I thought he'd probably run home," said he, "but I wanted to make
sure. I guess we'd better leave him here now. I'm pretty near through
with him for this fall, anyway. You just bring him up once in awhile
so I can take him out and not let him forget what I've learned him."
Meanwhile the affairs of Boytown were going on much as usual. Autumn
passed in golden glory, with nutting expeditions in October in which
sometimes as many as a dozen boys and a dozen dogs joined forces. As
they started out through the town streets, Mr. Fellowes, the news
dealer and stationer, said it looked as though a circus had come to
town.
Such things, however, were of common and regular occurrence. Only two
episodes of that season deserve to be specially recorded. One was a
dog fight which for a time brought the dog-owning fraternity of
Boytown into ill repute.
For some time several of the boys had been bragging, as boys will,
about the prowess in battle of their particular dogs, and this
narrowed down at length to an unsettled controversy between Monty
Hubbard and Harry Barton. Monty maintained that the Irish terrier was
the greatest dare-devil and fighter in the canine world, and he quoted
books and individuals to prove it. Harry, on the other hand, insisted
that the bulldog's grit and tenacity were proverbial, and loudly
asserted that if Mike once got a grip on Mr. O'Brien's throat, it
would be good-by, Mr. O'Brien.
It is only fair to the boys to state that it was the Irish terrier
that started the fracas on his own initiative. He was a scrappy
terrier, always ready to start something, and it usually required
considerable vigilance to keep him out of trouble. But it must be
confessed that on this particular occasion his master did not exert
the usual restraint.
It happened out on the road that Ernest and Jack so often took when
they visited Sam Bumpus or Trapper's Cave. Mr. O'Brien had been
annoying the other dogs for some little time, rushing and barking at
them and inviting a friendly encounter. He was not vicious, but he
loved a tussle. Finally Mike the bulldog, usually so long-suffering,
lost patience and turned on Mr. O'Brien with a menacing snarl that
seemed to mean business. For a moment the Irishman stood still in
surprise, while Mike, his head held low, waited with a stubborn look
in his eyes.
[Illustration: Irish Terrier]
That was clearly the time for interference, but I regret to say that
instead of interfering, the boys grouped themselves about with
feelings of not unpleasant anticipation. I further regret to say that
Ernest Whipple was one of the most interested.
Suddenly Mr. O'Brien, recovering from his surprise, returned to the
attack with an impetuous rush which nearly bowled Mike over. But
Mike was heavier than Mr. O'Brien and stood very solidly on his four
outspread feet. He merely turned about and presented a terrifying
front to his more active antagonist. Again Mr. O'Brien rushed, seeking
a hold on Mike's big, muscular neck.
For a time Mr. O'Brien seemed to be having the best of it. He took the
offensive and seemed to be on all sides of Mike at once. The bulldog's
ear was bleeding and Harry urged him to retaliate.
Suddenly Mike raised his huge bulk and bore down the lighter dog
beneath his weight. Then he began methodically seeking the vice-like
hold that would have meant the last of Mr. O'Brien.
Just at that moment, however, a diversion occurred.
"Here, there, what are you doin'?" demanded a man's hoarse voice, and
Sam Bumpus came striding into the thick of it. Without the slightest
fear or hesitation, though such an act was decidedly not without
danger, he darted in and seized the dogs by their collars, one in each
hand, and displaying wonderful strength of arm he dragged them apart.
If Mike had succeeded in getting his hold, if Sam had come up a minute
later, he could not have done it. As it was, he held the snarling,
struggling dogs at arm's length, shook them, and then ordered their
masters to take them in charge and keep them apart.
Ernest had never seen Sam angry before; he was usually the embodiment
of even-tempered good humor. But he was angry now. His jaws snapped
and his eyes flashed, and he seemed to be itching to give somebody a
good spanking. At last he spoke.
"I thought you boys was fond of dogs," he said. "I thought you made a
great fuss about bein' kind to animals. You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves, settin' two good dogs on to fight each other. Don't you
know no better? Dogs are built to fight, and they ought to know how to
when it's necessary, but any man or boy that starts 'em fightin' for
sport is a coward."
Without another word he turned and vanished into the woods. The boys
made no comments, either, and I am glad to say that most of them were
about as ashamed of themselves as boys can be. By common consent the
afternoon's expedition was abandoned and the company dispersed.
But that was not all of it. The story of the dog fight leaked out, and
there was more than one home in Boytown in which a boy was warned that
if anything of that kind happened again there would be no more dogs in
that family. And Monty Hubbard received something even more impressive
than a lecture. Mrs. Hammond, when she heard of it, was wise enough to
say nothing until the matter had cooled down somewhat. Then she took
occasion to set forth her views in a way that the boys never forgot,
and there was never another encouraged dog fight in that town.
The other incident which I spoke of was the strange disappearance of
Romulus. One morning he was gone and he did not return home all that
day. Ernest searched for him in vain and went to bed that night with a
very heavy heart. The next day Romulus did not appear, nor the next.
Acting on his father's advice, Ernest placed an advertisement in the
paper and offered a reward, but without result. Little by little
Ernest was forced to give up hope, and a very disconsolate boy he was.
Jack and Remus did their best to console him, but he grieved night and
day. No one could suggest what had become of Romulus.
Then, on the evening of the fifth day, a slight scratching was heard
at the door, and a low whine. Ernest, who was studying his lessons,
heard it first. Dropping his book on the floor, he rushed out, closely
followed by Jack and Mr. Whipple. There lay Romulus on the door mat,
"all in," as Sam Bumpus would have said. He was so weak and weary that
he could hardly rise, and the wonder was that he had been able to drag
himself home. A piece of rope attached to his collar showed that he
had broken loose from somewhere, and bleeding feet testified to the
distance he had come. Ernest lifted him in his arms and buried his
face in the dog's shaggy coat, and Romulus responded as well as he
could with a warm, moist tongue and a wagging tail.
After they had given him a dinner of warm broth and had made him
comfortable in Rome, Mr. Whipple succeeded at last in dragging Ernest
away.
"He'll be all right now," said Mr. Whipple. "He's exhausted, but he'll
soon recover from that. He's a young dog, you know."
"But where could he have been?" wondered Jack.
"It's my belief that he was stolen," said Mr. Whipple. "Someone who
knew he was a valuable dog stole him, but I doubt if we shall ever
learn who it was. But he must have been taken some distance away. He
looks as though he might have traveled thirty miles or more."
"How do you s'pose he ever found his way back?" asked Jack.
Mr. Whipple shook his head. "Dogs are wonderful creatures," said he.
CHAPTER X
WILLOWDALE DOGS IN NEW YORK
There are parts of Connecticut in which winter is likely to be a
rather moist and miserable season, but Boytown was situated in the
hills where it was colder and dryer. It lay in the snow belt, as Mr.
Whipple used to say. Consequently, winter was, for these boys, a
season which offered as many opportunities for outdoor sport as
summer--coasting, skating, and all the rest of it.
A favorite pastime with Ernest and Jack Whipple was what they called
snowshoeing. They wore no snowshoes or skiis, to be sure, but they
pretended they did, and they enjoyed trudging off over the
snow-covered fields and through the woods with their dogs, with their
eyes ever on the alert for the tracks of birds and wild animals. It
was Sam Bumpus who taught them how to distinguish these tracks, and
whenever they found an unfamiliar one they took the news to him and
learned what animal had made it. He showed them where a flock of quail
had spent the night in a close circle on the lee of a stone wall or a
corn shock and he told them about the quail's interesting life
history. He showed them how some birds hop and some, like the crow and
the blackbird and the starling, walk like a man or a chicken. He
taught them to know the tracks of the squirrel, the rabbit, and the
white-footed mouse, and even the fox and the raccoon, and one day he
showed them where an owl's wings had brushed the snow when he swooped
down to catch a mouse whose lacy little trail ended abruptly. Jack
thought that was a sad little story for the snow to tell.
Often they wanted no other object than merely to be out in the open,
with the constant possibility of finding rare tracks, but sometimes
they walked with a more definite purpose--to take Romulus up to Sam's
for a little training to refresh his memory, or, when a longer trip
was possible, to pay a visit to Tom Poultice and the Hartshorns. They
were always welcome there.
It was on one of these visits in January that Mr. Hartshorn made good
his promise to tell them something about the breeds of gun dogs other
than setters and spaniels.
"I thought you must have forgotten about that," said he. "What
memories you youngsters have--for some things. Well, suppose we see
how much we know about the pointer. He is the dog, you know, that
contests with the English setter the title of most popular and
efficient gun dog. I won't attempt to settle the matter. Each breed
has its loyal advocates, and at the field trials sometimes a pointer
wins and sometimes a setter.
"The pointer is a wonderfully symmetrical, lithe, athletic dog, with
remarkable nose, bird sense, and action. Like the setter he has been
trained to point and retrieve. He strains back to hound origin,
probably, but was developed as a distinct breed in Europe long ago,
doubtless with the help of setter and foxhound crosses. Some pointers
are wonderfully stanch. I knew of one who held the same point without
moving for an hour and a quarter, while an artist painted his
portrait, and I once heard of one who caught a scent while halfway
over a fence, and hung there by his fore paws till the birds were
flushed.
"Then there are several varieties of retrievers that are also bird
dogs. In this country we have the retrievers proper, the Labrador dog,
and the Chesapeake Bay dog, though none of them are very common. They
are all probably of spaniel origin.
"The Labrador dog is supposed to have come from Labrador, but we don't
know much about his history before 1850, when he was introduced into
England and was trained and used as a sporting dog. The wavy-coated
retriever, called also the flat-coated retriever, became popular among
British sportsmen and fanciers about 1870. He has a wavy coat,
longer than that of the Labrador dog. The curly-coated retriever, less
common in England than the wavy, has seldom been shown here. He is
characterized by short, crisp curls all over his body, with the
exception of the head, strongly suggesting the presence of poodle or
Irish water spaniel blood in his make-up. The Chesapeake Bay dog
originated in Maryland and possesses many of the traits of the
retrievers. He probably sprang from Labrador ancestors, crossed with
tan-colored hounds.
"Finally we come to a very interesting dog, one that you would love if
you knew him--the wire-haired pointing griffon. He is a new dog with
us, but an old one in France, Holland, Belgium, and Germany. He is a
splendid bird dog, useful for all kinds of game, and a natural pointer
and retriever. He is medium-sized, symmetrical, and well built, with a
wiry coat, and has a face something like an otter hound or an
Airedale. And there you have all the prominent gun dogs."
"What is an otter hound?" asked Ernest.
Mr. Hartshorn laughed. "You are insatiable," said he. "Some day I'll
tell you about the otter hound and all the other members of the hound
family, but not to-day. You've had enough."
It was partly the prospect of gaining information of this sort that
made the trips to Willowdale so attractive to the boys, partly a
genuine liking for Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn, and partly the fun of
talking with Tom Poultice and watching the Airedales and bull
terriers. But more than all I think it was the homelike, hospitable
character and doggy atmosphere of the big house. It was a place where
everybody loved dogs and took as much interest in them as though they
were people, and where any dog lover was welcome. Consequently, their
visits there were more frequent than Mrs. Whipple thought was quite
proper.
"You'll wear out your welcome," she warned. But somehow they didn't
seem to.
It was during these winter days that they heard a good deal of talk
about dog shows, both from Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn and from Tom
Poultice. Tom, indeed, was as much interested in the show dogs as if
they had been his own and he was never tired of talking of their
achievements on the bench and of their possible future triumphs. Mr.
Hartshorn owned a string of winners of both his breeds that were
famous throughout the country and that included several great
champions. Tom, who nearly always took the dogs to the shows and
stayed with them, knew every little point about them as well as the
points of their rivals.
"Of course, it's a bloomin' gamble," he would say. "So much depends on
whether your dog or the other one is in the best condition. That's why
I've been doing so much fussing over them this winter. You can't be
too careful. An upset stomach may mean a staring coat and may spoil a
dog's chances. And then again you may run up against a new judge with
hideas of 'is own, and then all your reckoning goes to smash. It's a
great game, boys."
And so they were wont to go out to the kennels and watch Tom grooming
the dogs and listen to his wise talk about points and judging. These
were busy days for him, for some of the biggest shows take place in
the winter and the early spring, and he had to keep the dogs in
constant condition.
It was from Tom that they learned the names of famous dogs of various
breeds, of instances when great champions had been beaten by unknown
newcomers, and of the rising and setting stars of dogdom, but it was
from Mr. Hartshorn that they gained a clear idea of what a dog show
was like. He described to them the crowded halls, the long rows of
dogs of many breeds chained in little stalls on benches, the
arrangement of novice and puppy and limit and open classes for the
different breeds, and all the rest of it.
"The dogs are taken to the show ring in classes," said he, "and the
judge for that breed sizes them up, feels of them, examines eyes,
teeth, and hair, compares posture and spirit and all the other things
that count, figures it all up according to a scale of points, and then
hands out ribbons to the winners--a blue ribbon for first prize, a red
one for second, and a yellow one for third. Cash prizes go with the
ribbons usually. There are also special trophies for special winnings,
such as the best American-bred dog of the breed, or the best brace,
and there is the contest between the winners of the different classes
in each breed. Finally, in some of the big shows, there is a special
trophy for the best dog of any breed in the show. This contest is
usually held at the end of the show, or perhaps before the packs of
hounds and beagles are judged, and it is always an exciting time.
Every exhibitor hopes to win one of the specials, but most of the dogs
are trying for their championship titles."
"How do they win a championship?" asked Ernest.
"A dog becomes a champion," answered Mr. Hartshorn, "when he has won
fifteen points in authorized shows. These points are granted according
to the size of the show. At the biggest shows the winner of a first
prize gets three points; at the smaller shows, where he has less
competition, he gets two points or one point. An official record is
kept of them all."
"The New York show is the biggest of all, isn't it?" asked Ernest.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn. "It is usually held in Madison Square
Garden in February--four days including Washington's Birthday. It's
too long a time for the dogs to be benched, but there are so many of
them that it is impossible to get through the judging in less time.
Sixteen or eighteen hundred dogs are shown there, worth I don't know
how many thousands of dollars, and the crowds of spectators are big in
proportion. You get an idea at one of those shows how many people are
interested in dogs. The New York show is run by the Westminster Kennel
Club, and because it's the biggest of all its trophies are greatly
coveted. The dog that is adjudged the best of all breeds at the New
York show becomes the champion of champions of the United States."
"Oh, my!" sighed Jack, "I wish I could see a dog show like that."
"You will, some day," said Mr. Hartshorn. "And who knows but that you
may have a dog benched there and carry away some blue ribbons and a
silver cup."
"Anyway," said Ernest, "you'll tell us all about this next one, and
what your dogs win, won't you, Mr. Hartshorn?"
"You may depend upon that," said he.
When the other boys learned what was afoot they all became mightily
interested in the bench-show game and in the prospects of the
Willowdale entries at New York. One or two of them had subscribed to
papers devoted to the dog fancy and these were handed about until the
boys had familiarized themselves with the names of some of the old
champions and the newer dogs of whom great things were expected.
Heated discussions ensued, but all were agreed in wishing luck to the
Willowdale dogs.
They were a bit disappointed when they learned that Mr. Hartshorn had
decided to send down only four of the bull terriers and five
Airedales, but Tom Poultice explained the reason for this.
"It costs five dollars for each entry of each dog, and wot's the use
of entering dogs that don't stand a chance? Ch. Earl of Norfolk is
getting old and 'e's all out of coat, and it wouldn't be fair to 'im
to show 'im that way. We've picked the ones we're going to win with."
When Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn and Tom Poultice started out in the big
car for New York, with two of Mrs. Hartshorn's Poms on the back seat
with her, they were followed by the envious longings of most of the
boys of Boytown. But the boys did not have to wait for their return to
learn about the results of the judging. They bought New York papers
which reported the show fully, and they devoured every word of the
reports. Many of the familiar names appeared among the winners, and
the Willowdale dogs captured their full share of the honors. Even Mrs.
Hartshorn's Tip won two red ribbons, while that splendid bull terrier,
Willowdale's White Hope, was adjudged the best American-bred dog of
his breed exhibited by his breeder, and gathered up enough extra
points to secure his championship title. But the climax in their
rejoicing was reached when they read that the new Airedale, Bingo's
Queen Molly, had gone right through her classes to reserve winners in
an entry of over one hundred of the best Airedales in the United
States.
It was, in short, a great four days for Willowdale. The Hartshorns
returned on Sunday, having arranged for the shipment of the dogs on
Saturday, and they graciously invited the whole gang up on the
following Saturday to admire the conquering heroes and their shining
trophies and to learn all about what happened from the lips of Mr. and
Mrs. Hartshorn and Tom Poultice, who, by the way, wore a grin that
appeared to have become permanent.
"Didn't I tell you that Molly was the genooine harticle?" was his
frequently repeated comment.
It was unthinkable that, after all this, the boys should speedily lose
interest. On the contrary, dog shows remained the foremost topic of
conversation for a month, until one day Herbie Pierson had an
inspiration.
"Say, fellers," he exploded one morning, bursting in upon a group of
his friends in front of the schoolhouse, "let's get up a dog show of
our own."
Just then the bell rang, which was rather unfortunate for all
concerned. The teachers found the boys strangely inattentive that day
and preoccupied, and more than one of them had to be reprimanded for
whispering or for passing notes.
As soon as they obtained their freedom they plunged at once into a
discussion of Herbie's fascinating plan, and in an incredibly short
time they had arranged the essential details. The Easter recess was
selected as the most fitting time for the Boytown Dog Show and a
committee was appointed, consisting of Herbie Pierson, Harry Barton,
and Ernest Whipple, to select a suitable place and make the necessary
arrangements.
After considerable discussion it was decided that the Morton barn
would make an ideal show hall, provided they could gain Mr. Morton's
consent. It was one of the largest barns in the town proper and it was
for the most part unoccupied, Mr. Morton having disposed of his horses
when he bought his car.
Mr. Morton was the president of the First National Bank, and a
person of great dignity and importance, of whom the boys stood
somewhat in awe. But they had set their hearts on getting his barn,
and so they screwed up their courage and called on him at his home one
afternoon after banking hours.
He turned out to be not such a formidable personage after all. In
fact, he was amused by the diffidence of the delegation that called on
him, and even more amused when Harry Barton, who had been chosen
spokesman, outlined their plan and requested the use of his barn.
"I'll let you hold your show in my barn on two conditions," said he,
after asking several questions. "First, you must promise to clean up
thoroughly after it's all over. Second, will you allow me to enter Li
Hung Chang in competition?"
Li Hung Chang was the blue-gray chow that followed at Mr. Morton's
heels wherever he went, spent his days at the bank, and never had a
word to say to any other dog. To this request the committee granted a
ready and joyful request. And it gave them another idea--to invite the
adult dog owners of Boytown, as well as the boys, to exhibit their
dogs.
A meeting of the Humane Society was called to receive the report of
the committee's success and to arrange further details. It was voted
to charge an entrance fee of fifty cents for each dog shown and
twenty-five cents admission for spectators, the proceeds to be donated
to the local chapter of the Red Cross of which Mrs. Hammond was an
active member.
Since there were hardly two dogs in Boytown of the same breed, it did
not seem possible to arrange for classes as in the big shows, so it
was decided to make it a free-for-all contest, with first, second, and
third prizes. Another committee was appointed to obtain these prizes
from Boytown merchants and to secure the services of Mr. Hartshorn as
judge.
Mr. Hartshorn, when approached on the matter, quite readily gave his
consent, and the boys did not have great difficulty in obtaining the
prizes when they explained that the show would be for the benefit of
the Red Cross. In fact, Mr. Pierson, Herbie's father, who was a
jeweler, was unexpectedly generous. He promised a silver cup for the
first prize--not a large one, but real silver--to be engraved later
with the name of the show, the date, and the name of the winning dog.
The boys were so enthusiastically grateful for this that they
expressed the hope that Herbie's Hamlet might win the trophy himself.
For six months past Ernest Whipple had been delivering evening papers
for Mr. Fellowes, the news dealer, and had become quite a close friend
of his employer's. This was due to the fact that Mr. Fellowes had
once had a brindle bull terrier that had met an untimely death and
whose memory ever remained fresh in his heart. The dog's name had been
Bounce, and Mr. Fellowes found in Ernest a willing listener to his
tales of Bounce's sagacity, courage, and fidelity. He was a genuine
dog lover and enjoyed having Ernest bring Romulus in to see him, for
the boy's dog nearly always accompanied him on his paper route. Mr.
Fellowes had become much interested in the activities of the Humane
Society and had become acquainted with most of the dogs of Boytown,
and when Ernest told him about the plan for a show he expressed a wish
to have some part in it. Ernest was not a member of the prize
committee, but when he reported that Mr. Fellowes wished to donate a
dog collar, it was unanimously voted to accept it as second prize. The
third prize was a twenty-pound box of dog biscuit offered by Mr.
Dewey, the grocer.
CHAPTER XI
THE BOYTOWN DOG SHOW
The Boytown Dog Show was scheduled for Wednesday of Easter week, and
the days preceding it were busy ones for the members of the Boytown
Humane Society. They called on every owner of a dog in town, both boys
and grown-ups, and succeeded in obtaining entry fees from a good
proportion of them. In the end, they had twenty-six entries, ranging
from Herbie Pierson's Great Dane down to Mrs. Peabody's little Peke,
and they saw to it that every one of these dogs was benched on the day
of the show.
On Monday morning the citizens of Boytown were amused to find tacked
to trees, billboards, and telephone poles in different parts of the
town a score or more home-made posters announcing the show, and
advertisements appeared in the local papers. The posters were somewhat
crudely done, perhaps, in red and black ink, but they left no doubt as
to their import, and it is safe to say that there wasn't a single
resident of Boytown who did not soon know of the coming exhibition.
The posters read as follows:
BOYTOWN DOG SHOW!
_Morton's Barn, Henry Street._
WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12.
9 A.M. to 5 P.M.
Come and see the finest dogs in Boytown. 26 dogs--21 breeds.
First, second, and third prizes will be awarded to the best
dogs. Mr. Merton Hartshorn, proprietor of the famous Willowdale
Kennels, will act as judge. Judging will begin at 2.30 P.M.
Prizes will be awarded at 4 P.M.
ADMISSION, 25 CENTS.
The proceeds will be given to the
Red Cross.
The question of Dick Wheaton gave the boys a little trouble. They
didn't like Dick, he was not a member of the Humane Society, and some
of the boys thought he ought to be barred out because of his
well-known disposition to be unkind to animals. Besides, he had been
openly making fun of the whole proceeding. Being divided in the
matter, they sought Mrs. Hammond's advice.
"I should let him enter Gyp if he will," said she. "It can't do you
any harm, and it may help to get Dick a little more interested in dogs
and in the Humane Society. Besides, it isn't Dick that's going to be
benched, but Gyp, and you haven't anything against Gyp."
Put in that way, it did seem unfair to bar out an unoffending dog, who
deserved nothing but sympathy, just because his master was not
popular. So Gyp became one of the twenty-six. Mr. Hartshorn refused to
consider bringing down any of his dogs, and the boys were rather glad
of that, for it would hardly be a fair competition if the ordinary
dogs of Boytown were obliged to compete with the winners of
Willowdale. It was too much like introducing professionals into an
amateur contest.
"Besides," said Mr. Har
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