Collie
"The Scotch are great people for dog stories, and a good many of their tales are about collies. Bob, Son of Battle, was an old-fashioned collie. Many ofthe anecdotes that are told as true stories deal with the breed's wonderful sagacity in caring for sheep. There was the Ettrick Shepherd's famous collie Sirrah, for example. He could undoubtedly do amazing things with sheep. One night something scared the lambs, and they started off for the hills, dividing into three groups. The shepherd called his dog and his assistant and started out in the hope of rounding up at least one of the groups before morning. But the night was dark and the hills a wilderness, and the two men were at last forced to give up the attempt until daylight. At dawn, when they started out again, what was their astonishment to see Sirrah coming in with the lost lambs—not one group only, but the whole flock. How he managed to get one group after the other, no one could ever say, but between midnight and dawn he rounded them all up alone, and not one was missing.
"This herding instinct is very strong in the collie. I once met a modern collie in Des Moines, Iowa, who, because he had no sheep to attend to, busied himself with the chickens, and he would never consider his day's work finished until he had carefully herded all the Rhode Island Reds into one corner of the poultry yard, and all the Plymouth Rocks into another.
"Cases are on record of collies that were taught to steal for their masters, by systematically driving offsheep from neighboring flocks. Many stories deal with the collie's intelligence in fetching help to a man or animal in danger. One collie brought in a flock of half-frozen hens, one by one, that had strayed away from the barnyard and got caught in a blizzard. He carried them tenderly in his mouth, depositing them in a row before the open fire. Another collie brought home a strayed horse by the bridle.
"Shepherd collies are wonderful with the sheep, but the so-called house collie is often more generally wise and adaptable. Hector, a son of Sirrah, was such a dog, and his master, a Mr. Hogg of Ettrick, has told many amusing stories about him. He was always getting into mischief, and Mr. Hogg's mother vowed he should never go visiting with her, for, as she put it, 'he was always fighting with other dogs, singing music, or breeding some uproar or other.' But with all that, he was so intelligent, and seemed to understand so many things in advance, that she used to say, 'I think the beast is no canny.'
"His master's father was one of the church elders of the place, and at one time accepted the post of precentor. He knew only one tune well—'St. Paul's'—and this he used to give out twice each Sunday. To save the congregation from too great a dose of 'St. Paul's,' the son agreed to relieve him of his duties. But here Hector, accustomed to his master'scompany on Sundays, objected. He would follow him to church, and when he heard his master's voice inside, he would raise his in the churchyard, much to the amusement of the shepherds and the country lassies. 'Sometimes,' said Mr. Hogg, 'there would be only the two of us joining in the hymn.' The result was that he was forced to resign, and the church was obliged to carry on as best it could with the old precentor and 'St. Paul's.'
"Hector exhibited strange motives and peculiar logic sometimes. He was jealous of the house cat and hated her, but he never touched her or threatened to do her any harm. He merely kept a suspicious eye on her, pointing her as a setter points a bird. He used to join in family prayers, and just before the final 'Amen,' he would leap to his feet and dash madly about, barking loudly. It was easy to understand how he knew when the 'Amen' was approaching, but why the excitement that followed? 'I found out by accident,' wrote Mr. Hogg. 'As we were kneeling there, he thought we were all pointing Pussy, and he wanted to be among the first at the death.'
"Next we come to Rover's breed. Old English sheepdog is its official name, but I think it might better be called the bob-tailed sheepdog to distinguish it from the original smooth sheepdog of England. In many respects it is quite unlike any other breed thatcomes from England. He was formerly used by English drovers as a cattle dog, but we know little of his history. The bob-tail is the hairiest of the large dogs and one of the most striking of all breeds in appearance. Some of the puppies are born tailless, while others have their tails removed within a few days after birth. The bob-tail is an active, swift, intelligent dog and, as you know if you have watched Rover, very playful and very expressive with his paws. Having no tail to wag, he wags his whole hind quarters to let you know he is pleased or friendly.
"The German shepherd dog has had a remarkable boom since its introduction here in 1912. It is an old breed in Germany and its appearance strongly suggests wolf blood in its ancestry. Originally a shepherd's dog, and still used as such, this breed has shown itself remarkably adaptable to police dog work and has been used in the war more than any other breed. The German shepherd dog is not as gently affectionate as some breeds, but is intelligent, active, alert, brave, and loyal.
"I think I should also speak of the Belgian sheepdog, partly because we are all interested in Belgium these days, and partly because we have begun to get a few of these dogs over here. They are said to be even cleverer police dogs than the Germans. A few have been successfully used over here by police departmentsof New York and vicinity, and a few fanciers have become interested in the Groenendaele variety and have exhibited specimens in the Westminster show."
"What do police dogs do?" inquired Herbie Pierson.
"I have never seen them at work on the other side," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I understand they are a recognized part of the police service in many cities of France, Austria, Belgium, Holland, and Germany. They are said to do wonderful things, such as rounding up gangs of thieves, trailing criminals, and saving drowning persons, including would-be suicides. In this country their usefulness has been rather the prevention of crime. I have visited the dog squad, in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There they are muzzled and are not expected to attack people. They are taken out at night with the patrolmen and scout around in back yards and anywhere that a burglar or hold-up man might be lurking. The criminals don't like that idea, and they have kept away from that section pretty consistently. I believe these dogs have also found persons freezing in the snow. Airedales have been tried out as well as Belgian and German shepherd dogs. For trailing criminals and finding lost persons, the bloodhound is most commonly used in this country, but I believe some rather remarkablefeats of trailing have been accomplished by Belgian sheepdogs at Englewood and Ridgewood, New Jersey."
"They are used mostly as ambulance dogs in the war, aren't they?" asked Harry Barton.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn. "You have probably seen pictures of them bringing in a wounded man's helmet, to guide the stretcher bearers to where he lies. They are also used as messengers and for sentry duty in the listening posts, where they are much quicker than the men to detect the approach of a raiding party or an enemy patrol. I could tell you some interesting and thrilling stories that I've heard about these war dogs, but I for one am getting sleepy and I'd like to try out that balsam bed and see if I like it."
There was a little less skylarking that night out of respect to the honored visitor, and so everyone got a good rest and was up betimes in the morning. After breakfast Mr. Hartshorn asked to be shown about the country near the camp, and everybody joined in the expedition, including the dogs.
"I suppose these dogs are all pretty well acquainted with one another now," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I must say it is wonderful how well they get along together. It all shows the power of human companionship. Kennel dogs like mine couldn't stand this sortof thing for an hour. It must be that Rags and Rover keep them all good-natured."
Sunday passed quietly and pleasantly and then came another evening campfire. Some of the boys begged Mr. Hartshorn to tell them about more breeds of dogs, but he laughingly refused.
"Sometime I'll tell you about the hound and greyhound families, but not now. You've had enough," said he. "Besides, I came here to loaf, not to teach a class. Let's have one of Alfred's stories."
"I'm afraid I've told them all," said Alfred. "I've tried to think of more, but I guess there aren't any."
"We've all told our stock of stories," said Horace. "You're the only one with a fresh supply. I guess it's up to you, Mr. Hartshorn."
"The trouble is," said he, "I'm no story teller, but I'll read you something, if you'd like to hear it. I have quite a library of dog literature, both fact and fiction, and I've tried to collect every good thing that has been written about dogs. I selected two stories that are fairly short and brought them along, thinking there might develop a need for entertainment of that kind. Would you like to hear them?"
A shout of unanimous approval went up. Two of the boys ran to Mr. Hartshorn's car for the books, and another brought a lighted lantern and placed it on a box at his elbow. Then they grouped themselvesabout the fire again and listened with absorbed attention while he read them two of the best short dog stories in his collection—"The Bar Sinister," by Richard Harding Davis, and "Stikeen" by John Muir.
"My! Aren't those fine!" exclaimed Ernest Whipple.
"Haven't you any more?" begged Elliot Garfield.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm sorry to say I haven't any more with me, but I shall be glad to lend my books to any of you boys who will promise to return them. They are very precious. I'd like nothing better than to introduce you to the dogs of literature. They're a great lot."
Then he proceeded to tell them something of the best known of these books—"Bob, Son of Battle," Ouida's "A Dog of Flanders," Jack London's stories, and a number of others.
"But I think," he concluded, "that the one I like best of all is the true story of a little Skye terrier named Greyfriars Bobby, one of the most faithful dogs that ever lived."
"Oh, please tell us about him," begged Frank Stoddard.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I would only spoil the story. You must read the book for yourselves. It will give you something to do next winter when youcan't go camping out, and I can promise you a rare treat."
The next morning Mr. Hartshorn was obliged to leave, and everyone was up bright and early to see him off. He thanked them all for one of the jolliest week-ends he had ever spent, and promised to invite them to a campfire of reminiscence at Willowdale sometime. Then he got into his car and started the motor.
I presume he had never taken part in so boisterous a departure. The rough woods road was difficult enough to drive in at best, and the boys and dogs crowded about the car, shouting and barking their farewells. In spite of all Alfred and Horace could do, some of the more venturesome jumped upon the running boards and rode a little way, while the dogs, catching the spirit of excitement, dashed about in front and everywhere. Alfred and Horace rushed in to quiet the confusion, but before they could get the boys and dogs in hand a sharp yelp of pain sounded and poor old Rags lay, a helpless, pathetic figure, in the wheel rut behind the car.
No one knew, in the confusion, just how it had happened. Mr. Hartshorn had been driving as slowly and carefully as he could under difficulties. A moment before Rags had been barking riotously and leaping at the hand of his master who stood perchedprecariously on the running board. Now he lay, mute and motionless, all the joy gone out of him, his eyes raised in dumb pleading to his master's face.
A sudden hush fell over the noisy crowd. Even the dogs seemed to know that something dreadful had happened. Mr. Hartshorn stopped his car and leaped out. Jimmie Rogers was kneeling on the ground beside his beloved dog, his face very white, and Rags was feebly trying to lick his master's hand.
Jimmie did not weep or cry out, but when Mr. Hartshorn came up, there was a pleading look in the eyes he lifted to the man's face which was much like the look in the eyes of the dog. Jimmie did not ask any questions. He only moved over a little while Mr. Hartshorn leaned over and tenderly felt of poor Rags's broken body.
"I must have gone square over him with both wheels," said he. "Poor little Rags! I wouldn't have done it, old boy, if I'd seen you. You know that, don't you?"
The dog's forgiving tongue gave him his answer. Mr. Hartshorn did not scold the boys, but they all knew they had been to blame, and no amount of scolding could have made them feel any more remorseful. They stood about in silent shame and dread. The irrepressible Mr. O'Brien trotted up to see what it was all about, sniffed at Rags, and thenwalked slowly away, raising questioning eyes to his master's face.
When Mr. Hartshorn arose he was winking very hard and biting his lip.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" asked Horace.
"I'm afraid so," said he. "We must get him away at once. Jump into the car, Jimmie, and come along with me."
He made a soft bed of the auto robe on the floor of the car, lifted Rags tenderly in his arms, and laid him on it.
"Watch him, and keep him as comfortable as possible," he directed Jimmie.
That was all that was said, and the car started off again, leaving grief and woe at Camp Britches.
Mr. Hartshorn lost no time in getting back to Boytown, though he was careful not to subject the suffering dog to the pain of rough riding. At Boytown he jumped out and telegraphed to Bridgeport to command the attendance of the best veterinary surgeon in the state. Then they sped on to Willowdale.
They took Rags out to the little building that was used as a dog hospital and made him as comfortable as they could. Mrs. Hartshorn herself brought him a dish of water which he lapped gratefully. He bore his pain heroically, but he was suffering terribly, andTom Poultice thought best to administer a merciful opiate. Then he made a thorough examination.
"There's ribs broke," he said, "and I guess 'e's 'urt hinternal."
"Then there's nothing we can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
Tom shook his head sorrowfully.
After awhile the effects of the drug wore off and Rags opened his eyes. Tom put his hand on the dog's heart and shook his head dubiously.
"I'm afraid 'e's going, sir," said he.
Mr. Hartshorn placed his arm about Jimmie's heaving shoulders and drew him toward the dog, who seemed to be begging for one last caress of his master's hand. Mrs. Hartshorn put her handkerchief to her eyes and hurried out.
The surgeon arrived soon after noon, but it was too late. Rags had died in Jimmie's arms.
After the unfortunate episode that resulted in the accident to Rags, it was as though a cloud rested over Camp Britches. There was no heart for merrymaking. And when at last the sad news came of Rags's death, it seemed as though all the joy had gone out of life. If you have never been a boy, you do not know how quickly a mood of hilarious jollity can be followed by one of deep depression. The plan had been to continue in camp for four or five days more, and some of the boys had been begging for a longer extension of the time, but now no one seriously objected when Alfred and Horace proposed breaking camp and going home. Every boy in camp had loved Rags next to his own dog, and even Moses went about in an atmosphere of melancholy.
Sadly they hauled down Jimmie's humorous ensign and pulled up the tent pegs. It seemed like a different crowd of boys from that which had so joyously arrived in the wagons but two short weeks before.
On a sunny hillside half a mile south of the brickyard there grew, at the edge of the woods, a beautifullittle grove of dogwoods, which in May was always a fairyland of snowy blossoms that almost seemed to float in the air. In this peaceful spot it was decided to bury the poor, broken body of Rags. I doubt if there has ever been a funeral in Boytown that was attended by more sincere mourners. Harry Barton and Monty Hubbard spent an afternoon, immediately after their return from camp, making a simple little casket of white wood which they stained a cherry color. It did not seem fitting that so gay a little dog as Rags should be laid to rest in a black one. They lined it with soft flannel, and Jimmie himself, trying hard not to cry, placed the stiff little body inside, still wearing the old, worn collar, and nailed down the top. Theron Hammond and Ernest Whipple were appointed to act as bearers.
The Camp Britches boys were not the only ones who joined in that sorrowful little procession to the dogwood grove. Jimmie's mother was there, quietly weeping, for she had loved Rags like another child, and with her were two or three of her neighbors. Mr. Fellowes closed up his store and silently joined them, and there was a little knot of girls with mournful faces, who had also known Rags and loved him. Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn came over from Willowdale and, leaving their car in the town, followed the little casket on foot with the rest.
There was no clergyman present to read Scripture or to pray, but I think the mourners were none the less devout. The whole ceremony, in fact, was carried through in almost utter silence. It had been thought best not to bring dogs who might not behave themselves, but Mike and Hamlet were there, for they could be depended upon, and it seemed fitting that Rags's canine friends as well as his human friends should be represented.
A grave was dug in the sand and the little casket was lowered into it. Beside it Jimmie placed the battered tin dish that Rags had used and a much-chewed ladder rung that had been his favorite plaything. The girls threw in some flowers and then the earth was shoveled in again and the little company returned home.
I hope the loyal soul of Rags was where it could look down and see that his old friends cared and had come to do him honor. At least his life had been a happy one and free from any guile. And he was not soon forgotten. Not long afterward there appeared at the head of the little mound beneath the dogwoods a simple headstone, the gift of Mrs. Hartshorn, and on it were inscribed these words:
HERE LIES RAGSThe Best-Loved Dogin Boytown.
HERE LIES RAGSThe Best-Loved Dogin Boytown.
HERE LIES RAGSThe Best-Loved Dogin Boytown.
HERE LIES RAGS
The Best-Loved Dog
in Boytown.
For some little time the cloud remained over Boytown and there was little disposition to take any active part in canine affairs. But youthful spirits cannot long remain depressed, and as the autumn days approached, one of the boys of Boytown, at least, discovered a new interest in connection with dog ownership. That was Ernest Whipple.
For some time Sam Bumpus had been talking, somewhat vaguely, of the possibility of testing out the powers of Romulus in the field trials, and Mr. Hartshorn himself had occasionally mentioned this. Ernest subscribed to a popular kennel paper, and early in September he began reading about the All-American trials to be held at Denbigh, North Dakota, and other similar events. The names of famous dogs were mentioned, both pointers and setters, and there was much speculation in the paper as to the prospects of winning. The thing fascinated Ernest, but it was all a bit unintelligible to him. He wanted to learn more about this sport that seemed to be followed by such a large and enthusiastic number of people, and to find out the way of getting Romulus into it. So one day he and Jack took their dogs and walked to Willowdale, for the express purpose of getting the desired information.
Tom Poultice was the first person they encountered, and he confessed himself to be rather ignorant as to the conduct of American field trials.
"I've seen many of them in Hengland," said he, "and a great game it is. Get a bunch of fine bird dogs out in the fields in the fine weather, with a big crowd following them, and maybe a bit of wagering going on be'ind the judges' backs, and the dogs all eager to be after the birds, and every one of them in the pink, and you've got a fine sport, men. The dogs seem to know, too, and they go in for all's in it. But just 'ow they run the trials over 'ere, I can't say. You'd better ask Mr. 'Artshorn. 'E used to own bird dogs once, and I'll warrant 'e's been all through it."
They found Mr. Hartshorn in his den, but he very gladly laid aside the work he was doing and asked good-naturedly what the trouble was now.
"We've come to ask you to tell us about field trials," said Ernest.
"Well, that's a rather big contract," laughed Mr. Hartshorn. "I suppose I could talk about field trials all night. I've seen some thrilling contests in my time. Just what is it you would like to know?"
"We want to know what a field trial is, how it is run, and what the dogs do," said Ernest.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "a field trial is more than a mere race. It's a real sport in which all the powers of a bird dog are brought into play. It's a competition on actual game—prairie chickens or quail,usually. The dogs are sent out to find the game and point, with the judges and handlers and the gallery, as the spectators are called, following. In the big trials there are three or more separate events. One is called the Derby stake, for dogs under two years of age. Then there is the All-Age stake, which is the biggest one. Finally there is the Championship stake, for dogs specially qualified, and the winning of that brings with it the highest honors in the bird-dog world.
"The order of running is decided by lot, and the dogs are put down in pairs. They start off after the birds and work for a stated length of time, after which the judges decide which of the two dogs won, the decision being based on speed, form, steadiness, bird-work, and everything else that goes to make up the bird dog's special power. Then these winners are tried together until the best and the second best, called the runner-up, are chosen in each of the stakes. It takes a good dog to win one of these stakes, for he has to run more than once and his work must be consistent. Purses are offered by the clubs as prizes, amounting to several hundred dollars at the big events.
"Occasionally there are other stakes, such as novice stakes and events in which dogs are handled only by their owners. In the big events the great dogs are usually handled by professionals, who take the dogs rightdown the circuit and win all the prizes they can. The trials begin in September in Manitoba and North Dakota, on prairie chicken, and are followed by big and small events in the Middle Western states, Pennsylvania, and finally in the South. The biggest of all is held in December or January at Grand Junction, Tennessee, every year. Here the All-America Field Trial Club holds its classic event, in which the winner of the Championship stake is pronounced the amateur champion of the United States for one year, winning also a large purse and a handsome silver trophy."
"Have you ever seen one of those trials?" asked Jack.
"Several times," said Mr.Hartshorn. "I have seen some of the most famous pointers and setters that ever lived run at Grand Junction and win their deathless laurels."
"I suppose Romulus wouldn't stand a chance there," said Ernest, a bit wistfully.
"Perhaps not, at first," said Mr.Hartshorn, "though you never can tell. It's a pretty expensive matter, getting a dog ready and putting him through one of those trials, even though the prizes are large. But there are smaller ones, and it is possible to try a dog out nearer home the first time, with less risk and expense. During the spring there are many trials held by local clubs throughout the East."
"Couldn't Romulus be entered in one of those?" asked Ernest.
"I don't know why not," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I'll look it up and let you know. Meanwhile, tell Sam Bumpus what you're up to and have him keep Romulus in shape this winter."
"I suppose Remus couldn't run," said Jack.
"I'm afraid not, my boy," said Mr. Hartshorn, kindly. "Nose is one of the prime requisites, and Remus hasn't the nose, as you know."
"I don't care," said the loyal Jack. "I'd rather win at a bench show, anyway."
When Ernest told Sam Bumpus about the plan, that worthy was much interested. He made a special trip all the way to Willowdale to consult Mr. Hartshorn, and between them they worked out a plan. Sam was enthusiastic now as to the superior abilities of Romulus as a bird dog, and he presently took him in hand for special training to improve his form and the other qualities that count in the trials. Off and on all winter Sam took the dog out, patiently and persistently drilling him. Sometimes Ernest went along and he was amazed by the intelligence and speed which his good dog displayed. When spring came again Sam announced that there was nothing more that he could do to improve the form and capacity of Romulus.
"I'll back him against any bird dog in the state of Connecticut," said he, proudly.
But before I tell how it fared with Romulus at the trials, I have one episode to relate, the only happening of that winter which needs to be recorded. For the rest, the weeks passed without any momentous event, with the boys in whom we are interested growing ever a little older and wiser. And this particular thing was not of great importance, perhaps. It did not greatly affect the boy-and-dog life of Boytown. But it did affect Jimmie Rogers, and Jimmie, since the death of Rags, had been the one lonely, pathetic figure in the group. It would be a shame not to tell of the thing that happened to him.
One day in early December Dick Wheaton appeared on Main Street, dragging a forlorn-looking little dog by a string. He was a smooth-coated dog of the terrier type, a rich chocolate brown in color, with an active body and a good face and head, but anybody could see he was only a mongrel. No one knew where he had come from and Dick did not take the trouble to tell where he had found him.
In his present state the dog showed none of the alert, eager character of the well-born terrier. He held his tail between his legs and he cringed abjectly. This seemed to amuse Dick Wheaton. He made little rushes at the dog and laughed to see the terror inhis eyes. He found entertainment in tapping the dog's toes with his foot and watching him pull back on the string. Wearying of this, he began maltreating the helpless animal more cruelly.
Mr. Fellowes saw all this from the window of his store, and his blood boiled within him. Unable to stand it any longer, he started out of his shop to protest, when he saw Jimmie Rogers come running along.
There could be no doubt as to Jimmie's purpose. His lips were tight set and his eyes were blazing. He came close up to Dick and seized his arm.
"Quit that!" cried Jimmie between his clenched teeth.
Dick was taller and heavier than Jimmie and he was not unaccustomed to bullying boys of Jimmie's size. He shook off the hand and grinned insolently.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Humane Society?" he asked.
"I'll show you, if you don't leave that dog alone," said Jimmie.
For answer, Dick gave the string a jerk. It was tied tightly around the dog's neck, and it hurt.
"Whose dog is this, I'd like to know," said Dick in a taunting tone.
Jimmie wasted no more breath in words. He snatched the string out of Dick's hand and faced him defiantly. Dick, now angry in his turn, made a lungefor the string. Mr. Fellowes couldn't see who struck the first blow, but in a moment the two boys were fighting desperately, Jimmie making up in fire and determination for what he lacked in size and strength.
Mr. Fellowes felt that he was called upon to interfere. It would hardly do to let a fight like this go on right in front of his shop, on the sidewalk of Main Street. Besides, other people were hurrying up and it might end in serious trouble.
Just then Dick managed to break free long enough to give the poor dog a vicious and entirely uncalled-for kick, as though he were in this way scoring an advantage over his opponent. The little terrier rolled over and over on the sidewalk, yelping in pain and terror. Then he found his footing and dashed blindly into Mr. Fellowes's legs.
The shopkeeper stooped and picked up the frightened little stray and took him into the store, where he did his best to soothe and comfort him, and it was wonderful how promptly the little chap responded and licked the kind man's hand. It may have been the first time he had ever tasted the milk of human kindness, but instinctively he understood and looked up confidently into this stranger's eyes with an expression of gratitude.
Meanwhile, a little knot of men and boys had gathered out in front of the shop. It so happened thatthey were persons who would rather witness a fight than stop it, or it may have been that there were some of them who hoped that for once Dick Wheaton would get his deserts. At any rate, it was a real fight, with no quarter, and it would have been a cold-blooded person indeed who could not admire the pluck of Jimmie Rogers. His nose was bleeding and his breath came in sobbing gasps, but he kept at it with unabated fury. Three times Dick Wheaton threw him, and three times he jumped to his feet and went for Dick.
The fighting of boys is no more to be encouraged than the fighting of dogs, but there seem to be times in the affairs of boys as well as of men when nothing but fighting will serve. The only way to cure a bully is to thrash him, and if anyone ever had a justifiable motive for fighting it was Jimmie Rogers.
At length Dick's blows appeared to be growing weaker. Jimmie, unable often to reach his face, had been pummelling him consistently on the vulnerable spot at the lower end of the breastbone, regardless of the punishment he himself received, and these tactics were beginning to tell on Dick's wind. His lips were parted, his eyes staring, and his face took on a strange mottled look. He began to strike out weakly and to concern himself chiefly with parrying Jimmie's troublesome blows and protecting his stomach.
With lowered guard, Dick staggered uncertainly backward, and Jimmie, rushing in, dealt him a smashing blow on the mouth that sent him reeling. Tripping over the door stone of Mr. Fellowes's store, he fell heavily, and lay there, with his arm crooked over his face, awaiting he knew not what finalcoup de gracein an attitude of abject surrender.
Men rushed in now, but Jimmie was satisfied. He shook off their hands and walked, somewhat unsteadily, into the store, and Mr. Fellowes closed the door behind him. Someone picked Dick up.
"Well, I guess you've had enough," said this unsympathetic person.
Dick Wheaton slunk off home without replying.
Mr. Fellowes did not refer to the fight. He did not think it proper to praise Jimmie, for he did not believe in boys fighting, but he could not resist a feeling of proud satisfaction.
"Want to see the dog?" he asked.
"Yes," said Jimmie in a tremulous voice. He was almost crying with weariness and he was doing his best to wipe the blood off his face and brush the dust off his clothes.
"Let me help you," said Mr. Fellowes, kindly.
While he was bathing Jimmie's face, the boy felt a pair of little paws reaching up on his leg, and a cold little nose thrust into his hand. He stooped down andpatted the little head. The tail came out from between the dog's legs and wagged joyfully. Impulsively Jimmie caught him up and hugged him close. It seemed a long time to Jimmie Rogers since he had felt the moist caress of a loving tongue, and the thing went straight to his lonely heart.
During all the fighting he had steadfastly held back the tears of pain or anger, but now, weakened as he was by his exertions and the after effects of excitement, he burst into tears, burying his face in the little dog's warm, soft coat.
"Oh, little dog, little dog, you're going to be mine!" he cried.
Mr. Fellowes said not a word. While caring for the dog during the fight, he had been thinking what a fine thing it would be to keep him, to fill the place so long left vacant by the death of his Bounce. But now, as he watched Jimmie, he made the sacrifice. This should be Jimmie's dog. The boy had fairly won him. Mr. Fellowes understood how he felt; he, too, had lost a dog. So he merely stroked the dog's head and said, "What shall you call him?"
"Tatters," said Jimmie, and still carrying the dog tenderly in his arms, he started out of the shop. At the door he turned back, with the flash in his eye again. "And I'd like to see anybody try to take him away from me," he said.
"I guess nobody will," said Mr. Fellowes, smiling, and Jimmie bore his burden proudly home.
It was wonderful what a change a few days of kindness and good feeding wrought in Tatters. He never became the favorite that Rags had been, but he was a good dog, not without excellences and wisdom of his own, and Jimmie loved him. And the change that came over Jimmie was hardly less marked. With another dog for his own he was himself again, and everyone rejoiced with him. On Christmas Day Mr. Fellowes saw to it that the dogs' Santa Claus presented Tatters with a fine new collar.
Mr. Hartshorn found, upon investigation, that the nearest field trials were those at Bedlow, where the Field Trial Club of Eastern Connecticut held its annual meet in April. It was not usually a large affair nor prominent among the field trials of the country, but Mr. Hartshorn thought it would be just about the right place for Romulus to make his first appearance as a contestant for field-trial honors. Though not a large affair, it was by no means insignificant, for there were some good dogs in that part of the country and one or two kennels from which had sprung dogs that had won a national reputation. Romulus was pretty sure to have opponents worthy of him.
April 15th and 16th were the days set for the event. Mr. Hartshorn communicated with the secretary of the club and made the necessary arrangements. Ernest Whipple filled out the entry blanks and they were properly filed. Unfortunately, Romulus was just a few months too old now to be entered in the Derby, but Ernest was not displeased by the necessity of seeking bigger game, and Romulus was entered inthe All-Age or Subscription stake. A purse of $50 was offered for the winner and $30 for the runner-up.
April 14th dawned mild and bright, and about noon Sam Bumpus appeared with Romulus, whom he pronounced to be at the top of his form after a bit of light finishing off the day before. Sam was to go along to handle the dog. He had not had much experience at field trials, but Mr. Hartshorn had given him full instructions, and if anybody could get winning action out of Romulus it was Sam. Mr. and Mrs. Whipple had agreed to let Ernest and Jack go in care of Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn, and both boys were full of excitement of the prospect. Mr. Whipple came out to ask Sam a few questions and I am inclined to think that even Mrs. Whipple shared a little of the excitement. Sam, as usual, refused to come into the house, saying that he preferred to eat his sandwiches in Rome, but he was glad to accept a cup of hot coffee and some cake which Delia took out to him.
Soon after dinner Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn appeared in their big car and the boys hurried out to join them. They sat together on the front seat, while Sam, Ernest, Jack, and Romulus were bundled into the back seat, with the suitcases and Sam's gun. It was a tight squeeze, but it was a jolly party that set forth, waving good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Whipple, Delia, and the disconsolate Remus.
"It does seem too bad to have to leave poor Remus, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Hartshorn.
"That's all right," said Jack. "His day's coming. You'll see."
As for Romulus, he was wildly excited by this unusual experience, and treated the residents of Boytown to a continuous barking, in which Tatters and Mr. O'Brien and one or two of the other dogs joined, running beside the car until it was well out of town. Then Sam managed to quiet Romulus.
They arrived at Bedlow about dinner time, and Sam at once disappeared with Romulus, saying that he wanted to see that he had a good dinner and a place to sleep. The others went up to their rooms and washed up. Sam did not reappear, and the boys began to be a bit anxious.
"Don't worry," said Mr. Hartshorn. "He's a queer duck, Sam is. But I fancy he would be uncomfortable if he stayed with us, and we might as well let him have his own way. I'll venture to say we won't see him again till morning, but we can be sure of one thing: Romulus will be well looked after."
Mr. and Mrs. Hartshorn and the boys had their supper in the dining-room of the hotel, and all about them they heard dog talk. After supper they all went to a movie on Mr. Hartshorn's invitation, for he saidthat if they didn't get their minds off the trials for a little while they would not sleep that night.
It was, in fact, some little time before Ernest and Jack could get to sleep in their strange surroundings, but at length sleep came, and the first thing they knew Mr. Hartshorn was knocking on their door and bidding them get up. They dressed quickly and hurried down to breakfast, where they found even more people than there were the night before. Outside there were many automobiles and some horses, and here and there a dog was to be seen, blanketed and receiving unusual attention.
"I don't know where Sam slept last night," said Mr. Hartshorn. "It may have been in the stable for all I know. I didn't ask him. But he's all right, and so is Romulus. Sam saw to it that the dog got a good rest, and he was up bright and early this morning, taking Romulus out for a short walk to limber him up."
After breakfast they all piled into the car and started for the fields a few miles outside of town where the trials were to be held. The sky was overcast, but Mr. Hartshorn said he didn't think it would rain. There was little wind, and Sam pronounced it ideal weather for the contest.
"I hope it won't rain," said he, "because a wet coat bothers a setter and gives the pointers the advantage."
There were a number of cars on the road before and behind them, and now and then a man galloped past on horseback.
"Looks like a pretty good gallery," said Mr. Hartshorn.
When they arrived at the grounds, Mr. Hartshorn told the boys they had better remain in the car with his wife, while he and Sam consulted with the officials. After awhile he returned and announced that Romulus had been paired with another setter named Dolly Grey.
"I can't find out much about her," said he. "At least, she's not one of the famous ones, so it oughtn't to be too hard for Romulus. The Derby will be run off first, so Romulus won't be called on until afternoon. Sam has taken him off into the woods to keep him quiet."
In spite of the fact that Romulus did not figure in the Derby, it proved to be an absorbing and exciting event to the Whipple boys. Two by two the young dogs were called out and sent off in whirlwind races after the cleverly hiding birds. Sometimes no birds were discovered, and then it became merely a contest of speed and form in ranging until the judges changed to fresh ground. Every now and then, however, one of the dogs would catch the tell-tale scent, whirl about to some clump of grass or thicket, and come to a rigidpoint, his less successful opponent trailing him and backing him up. Behind them followed the judges, handlers, and gallery, some in automobiles, some in traps, some on horseback, and some afoot.
It turned out to be a fine day after all, and the dogs, eager and swift, made a pretty sight among the old pastures and stubble fields. For the most part they were kept away from the woods where it would be difficult to judge of their performances.
A halt was called at noon to eat lunch and rest the dogs. Already the constant shifting of ground had carried them far from Bedlow and the men who were afoot were tired. The dogs were wrapped in blankets and were kept as quiet as possible, most of them being in wagons. Mrs. Hartshorn got out the luncheon kit and the boys found that they were famously hungry. Sam appeared during the luncheon hour, to find out how things were going, and Mrs. Hartshorn persuaded him to eat something with the rest. Romulus, he said, seemed to be in good shape, and on no account must anybody give him anything to eat.
About 1:30 the judges called for the final contest in the Derby. A small lemon-and-white female setter named Dorothea was pitted against a somewhat overgrown blue belton of the same species. At first it seemed as though the advantage lay with the bigger, stronger dog, whose name was King Arthur. He keptwell in the lead in the ranging, but the wise ones noted little Dorothea's superb form and said nothing. Little by little she crept up on King Arthur, and at length she swerved sharply to one side and pointed at a clump of alder bushes. King Arthur had missed the scent entirely. The birds were flushed and the dogs shot over, for that is the custom. Then the judges, after a conference, declared the Derby closed and Dorothea the winner. The party from Boytown saw a young woman rush out from among the automobiles and throw her arms around the little setter.
"That must be her mistress," said Ernest. "I bet she's happy."
The boys were so much interested in all this that they did not realize that the All-Age stake had already been commenced. Two pointers went galloping across the field and the contest was on. From that moment the boys kept their eyes fastened to the successive pairs of racing dogs, trying to appraise their skill and form and to compare them with Romulus. It was a better contest than the Derby, with more birds found, and it was evident that Romulus had opponents worthy of him. One interesting contestant was a beautiful Irish setter, whose red coat glistened like gold in the sunshine. He did well, beating his opponent, but he did not qualify for the finals.
At last Romulus was called, and with him the setterDolly Grey. She was a mild-looking animal, but once loosed she led Romulus a merry chase. Both dogs were a bit heady at first and did a deal of running without accomplishing anything, but at length Sam, with his patient whistle, got Romulus straightened out and Dolly Grey also settled down to business. She found the first birds, but after that Romulus beat her to two coveys in rapid succession, and Romulus, to the great joy of his master and Jack, was declared the winner.
"Didn't he do splendidly?" said Mrs. Hartshorn as Sam came up with the panting dog.
"Waal," said Sam, "he might have done worse and he might have done better. He wa'n't up to his top form, but it was his first trial. I expect he'll do better in the finals. It was lucky he wa'n't paired with one of the best dogs, or he might have been out of it now. As it is he's got a chance, and I think it's a pretty good one. I heard one of the judges say some nice things about him."
"Do you think they'll get to the finals this afternoon?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
"I don't think so," said Sam, "but I've got to stick around. They may want to see Romulus work again."
They did try him out once more toward the end of the day, and this time Sam seemed to be better pleased. Romulus won his heat handily against abigger dog. Meanwhile, however, everyone was commenting on the superb work of a pointer with a chocolate brown head and markings named Don Quixote, and even the boys could see that he was a past master at the game. He went at it as though he knew just how to make the winning move, and he did it every time.
"He ought to be in the championship class," said Mr. Hartshorn. "He's an old-timer, and if Romulus can beat him it will be a great triumph."
Time was called as the shadows began to lengthen, and the crowd, tired, hungry, and happy, returned to the hotel at Bedlow. At dinner everyone was speculating as to which two dogs would be chosen to compete in the finals, and Ernest was sure that the name of Romulus was heard as often as that of any other dog except Don Quixote. In response to the popular demand, the judges held a conference that evening and chose the two who would compete for final honors on the morrow. Crowds gathered in the lobby to ascertain the outcome of this conference, and when at last the judges came out everyone was a-tiptoe with expectation. One of the judges walked over to a bulletin board and pinned up a piece of paper. It read: "The dogs chosen by the judges to compete in the final heat of the All-Age stake to-morrow morning are Don Quixote, pointer, ownedby the Rathmore Kennels, and Romulus, English setter, owned by Mr. Ernest Whipple. The trials will start promptly at 9.30."
A cheer went up all over the lobby, and Ernest and Jack, strangely enough, found tears in their eyes.
"That means," said Mr. Hartshorn, "that unless Romulus is in some way disqualified, he wins second place at least, and to become runner-up in the All-Age stake at his first trial is a big honor, even if he isn't the winner. I tell you this because I don't want you to be too much disappointed if Don Quixote beats him. The pointer is a fast, rangy dog, an old-timer that knows all the tricks of the game, while Romulus, for all Sam's fine training, is still green. Let's not expect too much."
That evening Mr. Hartshorn did not even suggest a movie to take the minds of the boys off the great event of the morrow; he knew it would do no good. He told them stories of historic events in the field-trial game, and then sent them to bed. They talked excitedly together for an hour after that, but at last sleep claimed them, for they were really tired, and running dogs filled their dreams.
An even larger crowd followed the dogs to the trial grounds next morning, for there were some who were interested only in the Championship stake, though they were glad to witness the finish of the All-Age.The day was fine and Sam pronounced Romulus to be in first-class trim.
This time the setter seemed to understand what was required of him. He strained at his leash, and when at last he was set free at the command of the judges, he was off like a shot, neck and neck with the pointer, and the gallery cheered.
Old field-trial fans told Mr. Hartshorn afterward that they had never witnessed a prettier contest than that one. The pointer was cool and collected, but full of strength and spirit. When there was any leading done at all, he generally did it. But there was a certain spontaneous fire and energy in the running of Romulus that caught the fancy of the spectators. And Sam's careful drilling began to tell. Romulus settled down to the steadiest kind of work; his form was perfect and beautiful to watch; his scent was sure and keen.
The second move brought the dogs to a very birdy spot, and the points became frequent. In this department of the work it was nip-and-tuck between the two dogs. No one could say that either had a quicker nose than the other or responded more promptly to the scent. Sometimes one dog would be first on the point, sometimes the other. It was largely a matter of luck, for the birds lay on both sides of a series of fields, and the dogs ranged from side to side, circlingand quartering in a manner to delight the heart of a sportsman.
If Romulus had a fault it was overzeal. He covered more ground than was absolutely necessary.
"He is doing wonderfully," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I am only afraid he'll run himself off his feet. This is bound to be a protracted contest, the dogs are so nearly equal in every way, and endurance is the quality that is going to tell in the end."
As the race continued, those who were familiar with the signs observed that Romulus was weakening. The more methodical pointer kept up his steady, fast lope unflagging, but Romulus showed an increasing inclination to drop behind.
"I'm afraid this can't last much longer," said Mr. Hartshorn. "The pace is too hot for Romulus. If he had had more experience he would know how to save his strength for the last ten minutes. As it is, it looks as though the pointer had the reserve power."
Suddenly Don Quixote seemed to tap a new supply of strength and speed. He dashed to the right, and then circled swiftly around to the hedgerow of wild shrubs at the left of the field, and all so swiftly that poor Romulus was left well behind. As they watched, they saw the setter stumble. He recovered himself, but stood trembling with weariness and nervous tension. Sam's shrill whistle sounded and Romulusgathered himself together again, but his feet seemed to drag; he had lost speed.
Ernest Whipple was almost beside himself with excitement and fear of defeat. A hush fell over the gallery as they watched this last manœuver of the dogs, and Ernest's voice sounded loud and distinct as he shouted, "Go on, Romulus! Go on!"
The setter heard. He knew that voice and he loved it well. Sam's whistle, which he had become accustomed to obey, had become monotonous in his ears; it no longer served to put energy into his flagging limbs. But here was a new call, a call that demanded the last atom of his devotion and will and strength. He raised his head and looked about for an instant, his lower jaw quivering. Then he seemed to draw together and bound away like a steel spring released. Straight ahead he went, cutting across the track of the pointer and circling around clean in front of him. Don Quixote, surprised by the suddenness of this rush, hesitated and looked a bit dazed. The awful strain of the contest was telling on him, too, and the setter's burst of speed upset his equilibrium.
While the pointer still trotted along in a wavering course, as though in doubt whether to lead or to follow, Romulus caught a scent from the bed of a little brook almost under the pointer's nose. He whipped about like a flash and froze to a statuesque point thatwould have made a perfect picture for an artist. The pointer, still bewildered, did not even back him up.
The umpire's whistle sounded and the handlers called their dogs in. Sam picked up the trembling Romulus bodily and carried him to the Hartshorn car.
"He's all in," said Sam. "He used the last ounce he had. What a heart!"
Jack began fondling the setter's ears, but Ernest was eagerly watching the little group about the judges. At last a man on horseback came riding up. He was smiling.
"My congratulations," said he. "Your dog won, and I never hope to see a pluckier finish."
The forenoon was already half over and so the Championship stake was begun immediately, but the occupants of the Hartshorn automobile had no eyes for it. They could have told you nothing about what happened, though they learned afterward that it was an exciting contest in which some of the best dogs in New England took part. They were engrossed in their own triumph, and if ever a dog stood in danger of being spoiled, it was Romulus. Sam wore one of the broadest grins the human face is capable of and Ernest found his emotions quite beyond expression.
The party left early, before the Championship stake was finished, and they made a triumphal entry into Boytown. The last part of the way they were accompaniedby a noisy convoy of cheering boys and barking dogs, and the town knew what had happened long before it read the stirring account in the papers.
In due course Ernest received a handsome silver trophy, engraved with the now famous name of Romulus, and Mrs. Whipple appeared to be as proud of its appearance on the mantelpiece as any of the others. There was also the fifty dollar purse, from which Ernest was obliged to deduct a considerable amount for entrance fee and other expenses. The rest he tried to force upon Sam in payment for his invaluable services, but Sam would not hear of it.
"Why," said Ernest, "you earned ten times as much as that."
"I didn't earn anything I didn't get," said Sam. "I raised that pup and I'm as proud of him as you are. I'm satisfied."
So Ernest put the balance in the savings bank as a fund for financing similar undertakings in the future.
"A great dog, that Romulus," said Mr. Whipple, when it was all over. "I always did believe he'd cut a figure somehow. It's a pity Remus isn't in his class."
He didn't mean Jack to overhear him; he had no wish to hurt the boy's feelings. But Jack did overhear and came promptly into the room.
"That's all right," said he. "Remus will have his day yet. He'll show you."
During the winter the Willowdale dogs had again won bench-show honors in New York, Boston, and elsewhere, and Mr. Hartshorn and Tom Poultice were now getting some of them in shape for the smaller outdoor shows of the summer season. Several of the boys made a pilgrimage to Thornboro one day early in June and found Tom engaged in combing the soft, puppy hair out of the coat of one of the young Airedales.
"Why do you do that?" asked Elliot Garfield.
"It does seem foolish, doesn't it?" said Tom. "Well, you see a Hairedale is supposed to 'ave a short, stiff coat, and if you put one in the ring with a lot of this soft 'air on him, the judge won't look twice at 'im."
"Are you going to show this one?" asked Ernest Whipple.
"Yep," said Tom. "'E goes to Mineola next week. It'll be his first show. I don't know what his chances are. Mineola usually has a lot of good dogs. It'snear New York and it's one of the biggest of the country shows. We usually try out the youngsters and the second-string dogs on these summer shows and keep the best ones for the big winter shows. Then we 'ave a chance to see 'ow they size up. If a dog wins ribbons enough in the summer shows we figure he's qualified for the big ones next winter. Sometimes a dog can win his championship without ever seeing the inside of Madison Square Garden. He has to be shown a lot of times, that's all, and win pretty regular."
"It isn't so hard to win at the summer shows, is it?" asked Theron Hammond.
"Oh, my, no," said Tom. "Sometimes when the classes are small it's a cinch. Take a rare kind of dog and he's apt to 'ave no competition."
"I wonder if any of our dogs would have a chance at one of the summer shows," said Jack, with suppressed eagerness in his voice.
"I don't know why not," Tom responded.
That started the boys thinking and talking, and a week later they trooped out to see Mr. Hartshorn about it. Half the boys in town had decided that they wanted to show their dogs, and Mr. Hartshorn was at first inclined to discourage them all.
"It's quite a job, taking dogs to a show and caring for them there, and it costs something," said he."You have some good dogs—in fact, they're all fine fellows—but not many of them are of the show type. You would find the competition somewhat different from that in Morton's barn. I don't believe your parents would thank me for encouraging you to enter dogs that haven't a good chance at the ribbons, and I'm sure I would hesitate to be responsible for looking after a gang of you."
"But couldn't a few of the dogs be tried?" asked Jack Whipple.
Mr. Hartshorn looked into the lad's eager, bright eyes and smiled.
"Perhaps," said he. "Let me think it over."
As a matter of fact it was Mr. Hartshorn's desire not to seem to show favoritism that made him speak that way. For his own part he would like nothing better than to see Remus and one or two of the other dogs have a try at the ribbons, and his wife urged him to give them a chance. The outcome of it was that most of the boys were dissuaded, with quiet friendliness, from attempting the useless venture, while five dogs were eventually entered in the show of the Massatucket Kennel Club, to be held at Welden, some fifty miles from Boytown, in July. These five were Romulus, Remus, Alert, Hamlet, and Rover. These Mr. Hartshorn thought would stand the best chance of winning something. The Old English sheepdogwas entered under his original name of Darley's Launcelot of Middlesex, and for once Elliot Garfield was proud of the name.
Mr. Hartshorn knew he had quite a handful of boys and dogs to look after, but Mrs. Hartshorn said she would help, while Tom Poultice took sole charge of the half-dozen Willowdale dogs that were also entered.
The Willowdale dogs were shipped ahead in crates, as usual. So was little Alert. The masters of the other four dogs, however, objected to a form of confinement which the dogs couldn't understand, and it was arranged that the boys should take the dogs with them in the baggage car. Theron Hammond courteously offered to accompany Mrs. Hartshorn in the coach and Tom Poultice took an earlier train, so the baggage car party consisted of Romulus, Remus, Hamlet, Rover, Mr. Hartshorn, Ernest and Jack Whipple, Herbie Pierson, and Elliot Garfield. It was fortunate that only half a car-load of baggage was traveling that day, or they might not have been able to crowd in. As it was, they managed to find seats on various boxes and trunks and made themselves fairly comfortable. The dogs, with their masters for company, were content, after the first sense of strangeness had worn off.
"I understand," said Mr. Hartshorn, after the trainhad started, "that about five hundred dogs are entered, so it ought to be a fairly representative show. It won't be like New York, of course, but you ought to have a chance to see good dogs of most of the well-known breeds. And the dogs at an outdoor show are usually happier and less nervous than if they were cooped up for two or three days in a crowded hall and compelled to spend their nights there. There are really serious objections to the big indoor shows. More danger of spreading distemper and other diseases, too, than at the outdoor shows."
"Do you think we will see any of the famous champions there?" asked Herbie.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I believe some of the crack Sealyhams and wire-haired fox terriers are entered, and there's sure to be a good showing of Boston terriers. Alert will be in fast company.
"The wires are always worth seeing," said he, after a pause. "It was a white bull terrier that won best of all breeds in New York last winter, but during the last half-dozen years wire-haired fox terriers have won two-thirds of the first honors. The breeders seem to have nearly achieved perfection with this variety. Matford Vic, Wireboy of Paignton, Wycollar Boy, and several others have been almost perfect specimens. But you never can tell. Their day may be passing, and for the next few years it maybe Airedales or bulldogs, or almost any other breed that will force its way to the top. That's one of the interesting features of the dog-show game. Then sometimes you find all predictions upset, and all the big dogs beaten by a greyhound or an Old English sheepdog. There's always a chance for everybody."