The Dogs of Boytown
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The Airedales were judged among the first, and as usual the Willowdale dogs, skilfully exhibited by Tom Poultice, bore off their fair share of the honors. Soon the Boston terriers were called for. This was Theron Hammond's big moment, and when Alert was awarded second prize in the novice class Theron was warmly congratulated by friends and strangers alike, for there were a lot of good dogs shown and, as Mr. Hartshorn had said, Alert was in fast company.
Rover, as Darley's Launcelot of Middlesex, had an easier time of it, for only eight Old English sheepdogs were benched and none of the famous kennels were represented here. There were only three dogs in the novice class, and as the other two were second-rate dogs, Rover won first place. He also won third in the open class, but was beaten out by better dogs in the winners contest.
Hamlet, however, didn't win anything. His forelegs weren't straight and the judge took special note of them. He had better dogs against him, and the better dogs won. It was a fair contest, but Herbie was bitterly disappointed.
"Never mind, Herbie," said Jack Whipple, consolingly. "I bet Hamlet is a better dog to own than any of them. That's what I said about Remus when they said he hadn't any nose."
And Herbie, not to be outdone by the younger boy, plucked up spirit and bore his defeat manfully.
It was a two-day show, and the judging of the bird dogs, hounds, and some of the other breeds was put over to the second day. Ernest and Jack, therefore, still had their exciting time ahead of them, but the whole party was tired with so much walking about and watching, and they were glad to turn their dogs over to Tom's care and return to the hotel, with another day of it before them.
"Have you told us about all the breeds there are?" asked Ernest that evening in Mr. Hartshorn's room.
"I believe I have," said Mr. Hartshorn, "except some little known foreign ones."
"Oh, please tell us about those," pleaded Ernest.
Mr. Hartshorn laughed. "You're bound to know it all, aren't you?" said he. "There are a number of European, Asiatic, and Australasian breeds, some of which are very interesting, but you will probably never see any of them and I haven't a list of them with me. When we get back to Boytown, if there are any of you boys that would like to look up these uncommon breeds, just to make your dog knowledge complete, I shall be very glad to lend you a book which contains them all. For instance, there's the German boxer which has sometimes been shown in this country, and the Pyrenean sheepdog whose blood is to be found in several of our large breeds, including the St. Bernard and the Irish wolfhound. There are other European sheepdogs and hunting dogs, Asiatic greyhounds, and some queer hairless freaks. When you've looked those all up you'll know more about dogs than most naturalists do."
"Then if the breeds are all used up, I suppose the anecdotes have all been used up, too," said Jack.
Mr. Hartshorn looked at his watch. "Well, no, not quite all used up," said he. "I have thought of two or three more, and I guess we've got time for one of them to-night. It is about a tradesman of the Rue St. Denis in Paris, a man named Dumont. He had a very smart dog, but I don't know what kind of dog it was. Perhaps a terrier or a poodle. This dog was great at finding hidden articles. One day Dumont was walking with a friend in the Boulevard St. Antoine and was bragging about his dog. The friend would not believe his statements, so they laid a wager, the master claiming that the dog could find and bring home a six-livre piece hidden anywhere in the dust of the road.
"So the piece of money was hidden in the dust when the dog was not looking, and they went on a mile farther. Then the dog, whose name was Caniche, was told to go back and get the coin, and he promptly started. The friend wished to wait and see how it would come out, but Dumont said, 'No, we will proceed. Caniche will bring the money home.' They accordingly went to Dumont's home and waited, but no dog appeared. The friend asserted that the dog had failed and claimed the wager, but Dumont only said, 'Be patient, mon ami; something unexpected has happened to delay him, but he will come.'
"Something unexpected had indeed happened. A traveler from Vincennes came driving along in a chaise soon after Dumont and his friend had passed that way, and his horse accidentally kicked the coin out of the dust. The traveler, seeing it glisten, got out and picked it up, and then drove on to his inn.
"When Caniche came up the money was, of course, not there, but he picked up the traveler's scent and followed his chaise to the inn. Arriving there and finding his man, Caniche proceeded to make friends with him. The traveler, flattered by this attention, and being fond of dogs, said he would like to adopt Caniche, and took him to his room. The dog settled down and appeared to be quite content.
"When bedtime came and the man began to undress, Caniche arose and barked at the door. The man, thinking this was quite natural, opened the door to let him out. Suddenly Caniche turned, seized the man's breeches, which he had just taken off, and bolted out with them. There was a purse full of gold pieces in the breeches, and the traveler dashed after the dog in his nightcap and sans culottes, as the French say. Caniche made for home with the angry man after him.
"Arriving at Dumont's house, Caniche gained admittance and deposited the breeches at his master's feet. Just then the owner of the breeches burst in, loudly demanding his property and accusing Dumont of having taught his dog to steal.
"'Softly, softly,' said Dumont. 'Caniche is no thief, and he would not have done this without a reason. You have a coin in these breeches that is not yours.'
"At first the stranger denied this, and then he remembered the coin he had picked up in the Boulevard St. Antoine. Explanations followed, the breeches and gold were restored to the traveler and the six-livre piece was handed to Caniche, who returned it to his master with the air of one who had fulfilled his duty. Dumont's friend paid his wager and Dumont opened a bottle of wine, and they all drank to the health of the cleverest dog in France.
"Whether that is a true story or not you must judge for yourselves. I have told it as it was told to me, and I prefer not to vouch for it."
Laughing over this story, and thanking Mr. Hartshorn for telling it to them, the boys trooped off to bed.
So far as Ernest and Jack Whipple were concerned, all the interest of the second day of the Massatucket Dog Show centered about the judging of the English setters. They had been studying the entry carefully, and though there were some champions entered in the open and limit classes, and though Mr. Hartshorn pointed out to them the superior qualities of several of these dogs from the fancier's point of view, it seemed to the boys that Romulus and Remus were as good as any dogs there.
"Don't set your hopes too high," cautioned Mr. Hartshorn. "They will be pitted against some good dogs, and I don't want to see you too greatly disappointed. One has to learn to lose in the dog-show game more often than one wins."
"Anyway," said Ernest, "I haven't seen anything in the novice class that can beat them."
At last the hour arrived for the judging of the setters. The puppy class was disposed of first, and then the novices. Ernest and Jack led their own dogs into the ring, with numbers pinned to their coat-sleeves. The two dogs behaved beautifully, holding up their heads and standing at attention, as their masters had patiently taught them to do. They were both in good condition, their eyes bright and their coats soft and glossy. It was quite evident to the spectators about the ring that the other dogs in the novice class were not to be compared with them. Ernest and Jack were quite unconscious of the fact that they were being observed as much as the dogs and that there were some people present who admired their bright eyes as much as those of Romulus and Remus. But it was the judge of this class that held their fixed attention.
He was a brusque, dour-looking man, without a smile for anybody, but he had a reputation for strict impartiality and for a true judgment of dog-flesh. It did not take him long to reach his decision. With no word of congratulation he handed Jack a blue ribbon and Ernest a red one, and ushered them out of the ring.
"The Remus dog has the best head and most shapely body," was all that he said.
But the spectators clapped and showered congratulations upon the boys, and they were very happy.
"I knew it, I knew it!" cried Jack in an ecstasy of triumph. "Nose doesn't count in the show ring, and Remus is, in every other way, the best dog in the world. I told you he'd have his day. Good old Remus!"
And right before all those people he leaned down and hugged his dog and kissed him on the silky ear.
But that was only the beginning. Remus also took first in the open class, which was more than Mr. Hartshorn had hoped for, and Romulus took third. And when it came to the final contest of the winners, Remus won reserve to Ch. The Marquis, a dog that had won his spurs in the biggest shows in the country. He was the only dog in this bunch that could beat Remus, and there were those who affirmed that in another year Remus would defeat him.
Ernest showed himself to be a good sport and was glad that Remus had won. Jack communicated his high spirits to the other boys, and by the time the afternoon was over they were in a hilarious mood and eager to bring their trophies back to Boytown. They forgot their weariness, and as the spectators began to leave the grounds, and it was proper to release the dogs, they started off pell-mell, across the central oval of the race track, boys and dogs together, shouting and barking in a gladsome chorus. It was a goodly sight for some of the grown-ups to see, and they paused to watch the frolic.
"I'm so glad Remus won," said Mrs. Hartshorn, smiling upon them all.
"Yes," responded her husband, "Jacky deserved it. He has stood by his dog through thick and thin."
As the boys and dogs came romping back, Mrs. Hartshorn observed, "Youth is a wonderful thing."
"Sometimes," said her husband, "I think it is a greater thing than wisdom."
Perhaps a vision of her own youth came back to her, for she leaned against her husband's arm and softly quoted:
"When all the world is young, lad,And all the fields are green,And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen;Then hey, for boot and horse, lad!Around the world away!Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day."CHAPTER XVIII
ON HULSE'S POND
A week or so after the Massatucket Show, when Ernest Whipple's kennel paper arrived, he and Jack scrutinized it eagerly for the account of the show. The man who reported it had a great deal to say, in more or less technical terms, about a good many of the dogs. He seemed to pride himself on his ability to pick future winners and he was rather free with his predictions. Romulus he mentioned favorably in passing, referring to his enviable field-trial record. But to Remus he devoted an entire paragraph.
"This dog," he wrote, "owned by Master Jack Whipple, is a twin brother to the afore-mentioned Romulus. Barring a slight weakness in the loins and a look of wispiness about the stern, he was set down in good shape and easily defeated the other novices. He has the classic type of Laverack head, and this had much to do with his being placed reserve to Ch. The Marquis in the winners class. He is a young dog, and with proper treatment he should figure in the primary contests of next winter. We predict a bright future on the bench for this Remus."
Incidentally the boys were pleased to learn that Tippecanoe and Tyler Too had won the prize for the best brace of beagles in the show, besides some individual honors, and they rejoiced for their bright-faced little acquaintances of the baggage car.
The triumph of Remus was not short-lived. The residents of Boytown learned through the local papers what had happened, and began to look with a new interest upon these boys and their dogs as they passed along the streets. Romulus came to be pointed out to strangers as a coming field-trial champion, and Remus as a famous bench-show winner. Such dogs were something for the citizens of any town to be proud of. And there were not a few persons who gained thereby a new interest in dogs, to the lasting betterment of their characters.
As the autumn days came on, Ernest began to feel the call of the woods and fields, and begged to be allowed to have a gun and go hunting with Sam Bumpus. He was now a tall, good-looking lad of fifteen, and he felt himself quite old enough to become a hunter. Besides, what is the use of owning a fine bird dog if you don't hunt with him?
Mrs. Whipple strongly objected, for she was afraid of guns, and at last a compromise was reached. Ernest was to be allowed to go hunting with Sam provided he would not ask to own or use a gun until he was sixteen, and reluctantly he consented to this arrangement. Jack, who was still only twelve, had not yet caught the hunting fever, and since he owned a dog that could not hunt anyway, he was content to remain at home, while Ernest spent his Saturdays afield with Sam.
Sam Bumpus, during the past three years, had grown to be a less lonely man. Through the boys he had made friends in town, and people began to look upon him as less queer and to recognize his sterling virtues. And all that made him happier.
"It was a lucky day for me," he once said, "when I brought those puppies down in my pockets."
"It was a luckier day for us," responded Ernest with warmth.
Now, tramping together 'cross country with their dogs, they became even closer friends, and there was implanted in Ernest's character a certain honesty and a love of nature that never left him. And withal, it was great fun.
Then came another winter, and one day, during the Christmas vacation, Mr. Hartshorn invited the whole crowd of boys up to his house to enjoy an indoor campfire. Mrs. Hartshorn, as usual, spread her table with a wealth of good things to eat, and after the dinner they all gathered in the big living-room, where huge logs were blazing and crackling in the fireplace.
"I only wish," said Ernest Whipple, "that there were more breeds of dogs for you to tell us about, Mr. Hartshorn. I always enjoyed those talks so much."
"Do you think you know all about all the breeds now?" asked Mr. Hartshorn, with a smile.
"Well, no," confessed Ernest, "but I know something about them all, and I have one or two good books to refer to. I guess there's always more to be learned about everything."
"That is true," said their host, "and fortunately there are always good things being written about dogs by men who know them. I never let a chance go by to add to my own fund of dog lore."
Alfred Hammond and Horace Ames, who were home from college for the holidays, were present at the campfire, and Alfred was now loudly called upon for a dog story, Mr. Hartshorn insisting that he had told every one he knew. Finally Alfred acceded to the demand.
"I ran across two anecdotes the other day which may fill the bill," said he. "I think they are both about collies, but I am not sure. The first is about a Scotchman and his dog Brutus. The Scotchman, having gone far out of his way in a storm, stopped at a lonely house and asked for a shelter for the night. The owner of the house admitted him and showed him to a chamber, and the Scotchman, being very weary, prepared to go to bed.
"Brutus, however, was not so readily satisfied with his strange surroundings and proceeded to investigate. At length he returned to his master and began tugging at the bedclothes. The Scotchman was at last sufficiently aroused to follow the dog out of the room and down the stairs, and Brutus led him to the door of a closed room and sniffed at it very cautiously. Light which made its way through the cracks indicated that the room was occupied. The Scotchman could find no hole to peep through, but much to his surprise he heard several voices, for he thought that he and his host were alone in the house.
"He placed his ear to the door and heard enough to make him believe that his life was in danger. He was a brave man, and prompt action seemed necessary. Suddenly he pushed open the door and rushed in, surprising half a dozen men. They reached for their weapons, but the traveler was ready first. With his pistol he shot his host and cracked another over the head. Brutus, meanwhile, attacked so vigorously and to such good purpose that the man and his dog were able to escape uninjured. He afterwards learned that the house where he had sought hospitality was the resort of a gang of highwaymen.
"The other story is rather tragic, but I guess I'll tell it, as it's the only one I have left. A traveling merchant in England was riding along on horseback, when he dropped a bag containing all his money. He was quite unconscious of his loss, but his dog had seen the bag fall. The dog began to run in front of the horse's head, barking, and dashing back along the road, but the merchant, who must have been uncommonly stupid, I think, did not understand the meaning of his strange actions. The dog became more insistent, as the man urged his horse ahead, barking in an unusual tone and snapping at the horse's feet.
"The merchant, who apparently did not know dogs very well, began to fear that he was going mad. 'Mad dogs will not drink,' he reflected. 'At the next ford I will watch, and if he does not drink I must shoot him.'
"Of course, the dog was much too anxious and excited to drink at the next ford, and his master shot him. After riding on a little way the man began to be troubled with doubts and misgivings, and he turned his horse about. When he reached the ford again, the dog was not there, but the man traced him back along the road by the marks of his blood.
"The merchant found his dog at last, lying beside the money-bag, protecting his master's property with his last gasp. Remorsefully the merchant stooped down and begged the dog's forgiveness. The faithful animal licked his hand and looked up at him with eyes that seemed to say, 'It's all right, my master. You didn't understand.'"
No more stories being forthcoming, the talk soon drifted to other things. The boys vied with one another in telling of instances which illustrated the superior courage, intelligence, and faithfulness of their own dogs, and then fell into reminiscence. They talked of the awakening of interest in the dogs of Boytown and what it had meant to each of them, of the activities of the Boytown Humane Society, of the Boytown Dog Show in Morton's barn, of the days at Camp Britches and the death of beloved Rags, of the Eastern Connecticut field trials and the winning of Romulus, of the Massatucket Dog Show and the triumph of Remus, and of all the good times the boys and their dogs had had together. They quoted Sam Bumpus's quaint sayings and Tom Poultice's good advice about the care of dogs, and they told dog stories that they had read.
"I don't see how anybody can help loving dogs," said Elliot Garfield.
"There are men who hate them, though," said Mr. Hartshorn. "American sheep growers, for example, are bitterly opposed to dogs, and many of them would like to see the canine race annihilated. And it must be admitted that the dog forms the greatest obstacle in the path of increasing the important sheep-raising industry in the United States. Dogs do kill sheep, and there's no denying it."
"I thought there were laws to protect the sheep," said Ernest Whipple.
"There are," said Mr. Hartshorn. "Some of them are good and some of them are bad. Some of them place it in the sheep man's power to take the law into his own hands and act as judge, jury, and executioner on the spot, which of course is all wrong. But unfortunately the best of the laws do not protect the sheep. The state may pay damages, but that does not restore the slain sheep."
"I don't see what can be done, then," said Theron Hammond, dolefully.
"For one thing," said Mr. Hartshorn, "more study should be put on these laws before they are passed. They should not be drawn up by either partisans of the dog or of the sheep. They should aim to eliminate ownerless dogs and to make all owners responsible for the acts of their dogs. On the other hand, the sheep owners should not be allowed to collect damages unless they can show that they have taken due precautions on their own part, such as the erection of dog-tight fences. A man has to keep up his fences to keep his neighbor's cows out of his corn, or he has no redress. Why shouldn't a sheep owner be compelled to do likewise? But the real cure for the menace of the sheep-killing dog is more dog. The American sheep men don't seem to have learned the lesson that the past has tried to teach them. For centuries the trained shepherd dog has been the protection of the flock in all sheep-raising countries, and is so to-day in Great Britain, Europe, and Australia. I don't believe there are a dozen first-class trained shepherd dogs in this country, except in the Far West. In Scotland there are more dogs to the square mile than there are in the United States, yet the Scotch don't try to legislate the dog out of existence. The Scotch shepherd never thinks of taking out his flock without his trained collie, and the result is that few sheep are killed either by stray dogs or wild animals. When the American sheep growers learn their lesson from the shepherds of other countries, overcome their prejudice against the dog, and adopt the method that has been successfully employed for centuries in other countries, they will solve this problem, and not until then. I hope to see the day come when the sheep man is numbered among the dog's best friends here as he is in Scotland."
A lively discussion followed, and then, still talking dogs, the boys trudged home in the moonlight, over the crisp snow.
A few days later the whole crowd was out skating on Hulse's Pond. A week of clear, cold weather following a thaw had made ideal skating, and Boytown was making the most of it. There were a number of young men and girls out and a few older devotees of the sport, but the boys and their dogs had full possession of one end of the pond. Here a game of hockey was in progress, which was somewhat interfered with by the activities of Tatters, who had grown into a fine, lively, sport-loving dog. He seemed to think the game was arranged for his special benefit, and he chased the puck to and fro across the ice wherever it went. Another general favorite was Rover, who never tired of racing with the skaters and particularly enjoyed pulling the younger children about on their sleds. These small children had another name for him – Santa Claus – and he indeed looked the part. Others of the dogs were enjoying the sport, too, though Romulus and Remus showed a tendency to leave the ice and go scouting off on imaginary trails in the neighborhood.
Suddenly, while the fun was at its height, a sharp cry arose from the upper end of the pond where the brook ran in. It was different from the other shouts and cries that rang out over the ice; there was terror in it. The loud, insistent barking of Tatters immediately followed.
The hockey game was interrupted, and everyone looked toward that end of the pond to see what could be the matter. Tatters was running excitedly about the edge of a hole where the ice had broken in, and in the black water appeared the head and shoulders of little Eddie Greene, who had ventured too near a dangerous spot and had broken through the thin ice.
The sounds of merrymaking suddenly ceased, and there was a general rush in that direction. The bigger boys threw themselves flat on the ice and tried to reach out to Eddie with their hands, but the ice cracked alarmingly beneath the weight of so many of them, and they dared not approach too close.
"Get back, boys, get back!" cried Theron Hammond, who was always a leader. "Get back, or we'll all go in."
They saw that such a catastrophe would only make bad matters worse and obeyed the command. Only Theron and Harry Barton remained to try to reach the frightened little fellow, and they could not get near him.
The water was deep, and Eddie was struggling wildly to keep from going under the ice, which broke off wherever he grasped it.
"Keep calm, Eddie," called Theron, but Eddie was terrified and could not keep calm. His head went under once, and he seemed to be weakening. Meanwhile Ernest Whipple and one or two of the others had kicked off their skates and had run off in search of boards or fence rails to throw across the hole, but there seemed to be none near by and help was a long time coming. It began to look as though they would be too late.