King Harry, as he said, had never been trained as his grandmother was, for he had been stolen when he was a puppy, but he inherited enough trailing instinct to do pretty good amateur work, and we dogs were always setting him tasks, and were surprised at his cleverness in picking up a trail.
One night, shortly after my conversation with him about his grandmother, we gave him something to do for our owners. We thought at first that there was going to be a serious case, but in the long run it turned out more happily than we thought it would.
It was about ten o’clock on a fine spring evening. There had been a lot of cold weather, when suddenly this glorious day burst upon us, like a harbinger of summer. Everybody had been out-of-doors all day long, and master and mistress sat on the front veranda, too contented to go to bed.
Little stars peeped timidly from a somewhat misty sky, and the river babbled happily of even warmer days to come, and summer delights of flower and song, for the birds were beginning to return from King Harry’s sunny South.
Master sat in a big chair, mistress was swinging ina hammock, Amarilla was cuddled in her arms. I lay under the hammock, King Harry was sprawled on the gravel walk below, and Cannie, the Dandie Dinmont terrier, had gone down to the river to get a drink.
We had steps down to the pond near the house where the goldfishes were, but he never would drink from the place where those yellow things lived, as he called mistress’s Japanese beauties.
The night was very still, and presently I heard Cannie’s soft paddies coming back, pit-a-pat with excitement.
King Harry didn’t notice this. The good dog depended more on his nose than his ears and eyes. Perhaps from having been with human beings so much, I see and hear more quickly than most dogs. Something was the matter with Cannie, that was one thing sure.
I ran down the veranda steps, and put my muzzle close to his. “Lie down, and out with it,” I said.
He flopped on the gravel beside King Harry. Now our heads were all together—the bloodhound’s dome, my sloping head and strong, muscular jaws, and Cannie’s hairy nose.
“Something’s gone wrong,” he said with his strong, Scottish accent. “I was wandering down yon by the alders near the river, when I heard a furious noise of something being driven hard. It was an automobile coming from New York way. It stopped short when it got near me, and turned in among the alders. I scampered out of the way, and a man hid it in off the road. Then he sprang out, and tore up across theturnip field toward Gringo’s house. I was too far off to smell him, but I got a verra uneasy impression.”
He stopped, and both dogs looked at me. I had been with the Grantons longer than they had, and they were waiting for my advice.
I was puzzled. “If it were an ordinary case of big country-houses and rich people,” I said, “I would imagine it an attempt at burglary. But you say the man was alone.”
“Stark alone,” said Cannie.
“And he left his car there?”
“Yes, down yon,” said the little dog, nodding toward Pleasant River.
“You see,” I went on, “master and mistress and the Bonstones haven’t anything worth stealing, but grandfathers’ clocks, and pianos, and old furniture. They’ve given away jewelry and silver, and anything that would tempt their fellow-men. However, it’s our duty to investigate. Lead on, Cannie.”
He galloped ahead with King Harry, and I paused an instant and listened.
“Rudolph,” my mistress was just saying, “I’m sleepy. I think I will go to bed.”
“Very well, darling,” he replied, and he got up and helped her out of the hammock, and opened the screen door for her.
“I think I will sit a while longer,” he said as he kissed her. “I have a little business to plan out.”
“And I have been keeping you from it by my chattering,” she said. “Why did you not ask me to keep still?”
“Because I preferred pleasure to business,” he said gallantly, and she laughed, and went to bed.
That just suited me. She would be out of the way if we wanted master, and he was sure to sit for a while, for he was a most scrupulous man about keeping his word, even to himself.
I raced after my dog-brothers. The night did not seem as dark as to human beings. Cannie was on his hind legs peering into the car, and King Harry was up on the seat, snuffing and blowing over a pair of driving gloves.
I stood and listened for a minute. What an exquisite night! The lovely misty sky spread above us was serene and comforting, the great dark earth was warm and palpitating—one could hear things growing. Talk about the quiet of the country—this country just talked, when a dog had ears to hear. The tiny growing leaves of the trees had one language, the grass had another, there was no mistake about the joy of the frogs—they were simply yelling with delight to think that summer was coming.
Just here King Harry jumped down. “I needn’t have stayed so long,” he said, “but I wanted to do some fine work.”
“What have you found out?” I asked. “Your eyes are blazing.”
“It’s that demon Fifeson,” he said. “No trouble to find his scent, but I wished to know whether he’s after good or evil.”
“I hear he’s reformed,” I said, “and is doing well in a garage on Broadway.”
“I hate him,” said King Harry. “I suppose it’s wrong, but it will take years for me to get over my resentment toward him. He never hurt me much. I had simply to draw a wagon on the stage, but it used to make my blood boil to see him flog that small Amarilla.”
“Never mind that now, old man,” I said, “tell us what you’ve discovered.”
“When a man is in a furious rage, and about to commit a crime,” said the hound, “a strong acrid smell emanates from him. Those gloves are damp and excited as to scent, but not criminal. I guess Fifeson is here on business.”
“Maybe it’s good business,” I said.
“We canna tell,” said the little Scotch dog cautiously. “For what did he hide his car? I suspicioned who it was, but didna care to tell till I was sure.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s follow him.”
King Harry put his old muzzle to the ground, but before he did so, he said, “Of course, I’ll follow mute.”
I nodded my head, and we started off up the road, going not very fast, as King Harry was not an expert trailer. He nosed to and fro, and Cannie said impatiently, “I tell ye, man, he crossed the turnip field.”
“I’m not going to be ‘lifted,’” said King Harry stubbornly. “You never indicate to a hound the direction in which his quarry has gone. I’m doing this, anyway. Kindly hold your tongue.”
The abashed Cannie slunk behind me, and we went up across the turnip field in King Harry’s good time, down to the hollow where the long meadow grassgrew, across it through the pinewood belonging to us, and into the pasture belonging to Mr. Bonstone.
The sweet wild grass was soft to our paws, and we skipped over the many rocks sticking their ribs up through the ground. We cantered easily along, and King Harry took us to a path leading to the young orchard at Green Hill, then to an asphalt walk that ran from the house down to the electric car track in the road. This walk was for the convenience of the farm hands when they wanted to take the car to the city. The men would start out from their rooms over the stables with nicely blacked shoes, and Mrs. Bonstone had suggested that this walk be made, so they could arrive in the city with smart looking feet.
Well, King Harry soon had us in the vicinity of the stables. This meant that all the Bonstone tribe of dogs had to have a muzzle in the affair, though we would just as soon have worked the thing alone.
Sir Walter Scott was the first to challenge us. “Woo, woo,” we heard in his deep growl, as he lay crouched behind an apple tree.
As quick as a flash, his tone changed. Our scent had been borne on the night air. He ran to meet us, nosing hurriedly, to find out what this late visit meant.
“Wow, wow,” came from the stables in Yeggie’s sharp voice, and without waiting for Joe to wake and let him out, he took a flying leap through the open window to the roof of the harness-room, and came limping to greet us.
“Shut up,” I said irritably. “Why don’t you wait and think, before you bark?”
“Yeggie always barks first, and thinks afterward,” said the little dog, and he licked my ear so humbly, that I had to forgive him.
Czarina came among us like a silent shadow, and poked her long muzzle at me. “What’s the matter?” she said.
“Good London, he’s off,” I replied inelegantly; “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t turn King Harry from his trail.”
“Now we’ve got to trail him,” said Czarina, “for he’s out of sight,” and she put her muzzle to the ground.
“I think I’ll stay with the hens,” said Sir Walter, sitting down outside his kennel. “Betsy’s in there, and she’s fussing, for she can’t see well at night. Bark, if you want me.”
“What’s up?” asked Weary Winnie sleepily. She was always the last to arrive, and now she stood blinking drowsily at us, and wrinkling her nose more than ever.
“We’re man-trailing,” I said; “come on, youngster,” and off I started.
By this time, every dog had caught the scent of Fifeson, and they were a mad-looking lot. If they had followed the natural impulses of their plain dog hearts, I think they would have liked to tear that man to pieces that quiet summer night, but they were trained animals, and each one knew if they dared hurt so much as a hair of his wicked head, they would be severely called to account by Mr. Bonstone. So merely growling unutterable things, they all pressed on.
Suddenly, we brought up short near the house. There had been an old well on the place for a long time. It was, strange to say, close to the front door of the present house, which was built in a slightly different place from the old farm-house. The well had been built over, and a bird’s bath tub was on the top of it, surrounded by a clump of syringa bushes, so the pretty feathered things could bathe in the privacy that they love as much as human beings.
“The brute’s in there,” hissed Cannie between the two broken-off teeth, knocked out by the amiable Fifeson.
At that instant, I felt a soft impact against my throat, and mighty glad I was that I stood on good terms with Gringo.
The old fellow had slipped down from his master’s bedroom by the winding staircase that led from an upper to a lower veranda. Mr. Bonstone never shut up, by night or by day, the best friend he had. He was at liberty to roam all over the farm if he wished.
Gringo’s old lay-back nose wasn’t as good as mine, but he felt that friends were abroad, and he was right on the spot to help us if necessary.
“It’s Fifeson,” I said. “I might have known he was near, for Amarilla has been trembling all day. She’s as sensitive as a baby.”
“What’s up with Fifeson?” asked Gringo.
“I guess he’s all right,” I said, “but we’re watching. He’s in that syringa bush.”
Well, there we sat for a short time—King Harry,Gringo, Czarina, Cannie, Yeggie, Weary Winnie and myself. The Frenchmen didn’t turn out.
The air was so clear that we could hear every word spoken on the veranda. Though it was late, a neighbour and his wife were calling on the Bonstones, and we could hear the clink of glass, as bottles and glasses touched each other.
A shudder ran through the Fifeson dogs. They all hated the sight and sound of a bottle, for it was when their master was drunk that he beat them most.
A thought came to me. I whispered to Cannie, “Come on home with me,” and followed by him, and taking the shortest cut known to us dogs, we just galloped back to the Pleasant River house.
Master was still dreaming on the veranda. “Stay here and watch the house,” I said to Cannie, “I’m going to take him back with me.”
It was the work of an instant, to spring at master’s arm and look at him with my most burning glance.
“All right, old fellow,” he said; “I’ll go with you.”
He turned round, glanced at Cannie who was sitting close to the door, not very well pleased at being left out of the fun, then ran, actually ran, to the garage with me, for he saw the occasion required haste, and got out his new French racing car. I sprang to the seat, barked in the direction of Green Hill, and in a few minutes, we streaked up in front of the Bonstones’ house.
The callers departed, when master arrived. Gringo said they had been there for an age. Master satdown, and the Bonstones began talking to him, but he didn’t say much.
He kept looking at me, and presently I led the way to the syringa bushes. He saw the dogs sitting round, and said in a low voice, “Hello! there—come out, whoever you are.”
I thought to myself: master is a clever man, the Bonstones are clever people, but not one of them knows what we dogs have sensed—namely that there is a man in the bushes, and we know all about him, except his business here, which, however, we are sure is of a pacific nature, and not criminal. And some people say, dogs are not clever!
The bushes parted, and Fifeson came out, looking very hot and sticky. He is a weasel-faced little man. With that appearance, I don’t see how he can be a decent chap, but he’s making a brave fight for it. I hated him almost as much as the other dogs, and with a growl, I stepped aside for him to pass me. I did not want the brute to touch me.
Keeping close at master’s heels, I listened to hear what Fifeson had to say for himself.
“I say, sir,” he said in a low, almost agonised voice, “for heaven’s sake send Mr. Bonstone down here, and don’t tell his wife who it is—it might cost me my life, sir—it might.”
“All right,” said my master, “don’t be scared. Only the dogs know, and they won’t peach.”
Fifeson had seen us. He knew that though the dogs hated him, they would not hurt him. He had been their master. Even in the midst of his perturbation,he clicked his dry tongue, and snapped his fingers at his old victims. Not one of them would go near him. Weary Winnie made a kind of shuffle toward him, but Gringo growled at her, and kept her from carrying out her impulse. The dogs wouldn’t hurt him, but they wouldn’t forgive him.
I ran after master to the veranda. “Norman,” he said carelessly to his friend, “a man has come from New York to see you on special business. He doesn’t want his presence known. Just step down to the syringas, and speak to him.”
Mrs. Bonstone is a very clever woman. She gave master a quick look, and catching up her little silk wrap said, “Good night, I’m going to bed.”
As soon as she was gone, Mr. Bonstone brought Fifeson up on the veranda, and gave him something to drink. He gulped down his ginger ale in a flash, and said a few hasty words.
His breath was nearly all gone, for the night was warm, and he had rushed uphill part of the way. However, he had had time to recover himself in the bushes. I think perhaps it was fear that made him hot.
“You know Jones’ big jewelry store down town,” he said to Mr. Bonstone in a low voice.
Mr. Bonstone nodded.
Fifeson pulled his chair further in the shadow of the wall. “I say, turn out some of the lights, won’t you?”
Master jumped up, and turned out every one, while the man went on whispering to Mr. Bonstone.
“It’s going to be broken into at two o’clock to-night. I believe you set Jones up after he failed.”
Mr. Bonstone nodded again.
“I knew you had big money in it,” Fifeson gasped. “Get to town quick. Get a friend to make the police wise. Don’t go to headquarters yourself. You did me a good turn. I thought I’d stand by you.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Bonstone briefly. “Shall I go back in your car?”
“Oh! Lord, no,” said the poor wretch in an agony. “I may get shot for this, anyway.”
He was breaking away, when Mr. Bonstone caught him. “How did you find out?”
“Was in the garage under a car—two gangsters came in to hire an auto—I caught a clue and followed it up.”
He paused in some embarrassment, and Mr. Bonstone said, “All right, go. I’m obliged.”
Fifeson shot out into the night, and not a dog followed him this time.
Mr. Bonstone turned to my master, “Fifeson has had some dealings with the underworld that he doesn’t want to reveal. Now, how am I to get to town?”
“I’ll take you in the racer,” said master pointing to his French car.
“I’ll say a word to Stanna,” said Mr. Bonstone, and he leaped upstairs calling over his shoulder, “Czarina.”
Czarina told me afterward that Mr. Bonstone shot into his wife’s bed-room, exclaimed, “I’m going to town—will explain later. Keep the hound with you for company. Everything’s all right, but dress yourselfand telephone Thomas to take you over to Claudia. Tell her Rudolph is with me. We’ll be back in a few hours. Not a word to a soul about the man who was here.”
Czarina says Mrs. Bonstone smiled brightly, never asked a question, motored over to my dear mistress’s house, told her the two men had gone off to the city, probably on one of their errands of mercy.
I think mistress was a little worried, for Czarina says she called for Cannie, King Harry and myself to watch in the house till master returned. She got King Harry and Cannie, but not your humble servant, for I had sprung first in the car, and was flying to New York on the wings of the wind.
The car is a beauty, and as there were few machines on the road, master didn’t trouble about the speed limit. We didn’t go quite into the city. We stopped at the Johnsons’, where Louis and I had had the adventure in saving Lady Serena Glandison from drowning. Mr. Johnson, fortunately, was just getting home from his club in his own car. A few words to him from master, and back he went to the city, to put detectives on the track of the wicked young burglars who were going to steal Mr. Jones’ diamonds.
The burglary didn’t come off, two men were caught, and sent to Sing Sing, though one escaped, and best of all, Fifeson’s connection with the affair was never suspected, as it had been managed in such a roundabout way.
Fifeson went on from better to best, and now he is chauffeur for a millionaire, and we dogs often seehim driving about in a smart maroon livery, and with a smile of smug respectability on his weasel face. I hear he has just married a very respectable Norwegian girl. I don’t believe he told her his past. The millionaire’s dog told Gringo that if any woman could keep a man straight, it would be that light-haired Norwegian Anna.
Women seem to have a great deal of influence over men. I suppose if all the women in the world were good, there would be no bad men.
I heard mistress talking to master about his hurried trip that night, and she was gently trying to find out what it had all been about.
“I can’t tell you names, dearest,” he said. “It might cost a man his life. I will merely say that a man whom I began to help, and who was taken hold of by Bonstone later, did him a good turn, and saved him some money.”
“Everybody seems to be half good and half bad,” said Mrs. Granton with a puzzled face.
“Every one,” said master emphatically, “and it goes to prove that we should all go through life with an infinite pity for every one, including ourselves.”