Lad: A Dog, page 13
Mortimer, his gentle plan of kitten killing foiled, redoubled his screeches. Lad’s back was higher than the child’s eyes. Yet Morty sought to hurl the kitten over this stolid barrier into the fire.
Tipperary fell short, landing on the dog’s shoulders, digging her needle claws viciously therein, and thence leaping to the floor, from which she sprang to the top of the bookshelves, spitting back blasphemously at her tormentor.
Morty’s interest in the fire had been purely as a piece of immolation for the cat, but finding his path to it barred, he straightway resolved to go thither himself.
He started to move round to it, in front of Lad. The dog took a forward step that again barred the way. Morty went insane with wrath at this new interference with his sweet plans. His howls swelled to a sustained roar, that reached the ears of the grownups on the lawn.
He flew at Lad, beating the dog with all the puny force of his fists, sinking his milk teeth into the collie’s back, wrenching and tearing at the thick fur, stamping with his booted heels upon the absurdly tiny white forepaws, kicking the short ribs and the tender stomach.
Never for an instant did the child slacken his howls as he punished the dog that was saving him from death. Rather, he increased their volume from moment to moment. Lad did not stir. The kicking and beating and gouging and hair-pulling were not pleasant, but they were wholly bearable. The heat was not. The smell of singed hair began to fill the room, but Lad stood firm.
And then in rushed the relief expedition, the Wall Street Farmer at its head.
At once concluding that Lad had bitten his son’s bleeding hand, the irate father swung aloft a chair and strode to the rescue.
Lad saw him coming.
With the lightning swiftness of his kind he whirled to one side as the mass of wood descended. The chair missed him by a fraction of an inch and splintered into pieces. It was a Chippendale, and had belonged to the Mistress’ great-grand-parents.
For the first time in all his blameless life Lad broke the sacred Guest Law by growling at a vouched-for visitor. But surely this fat bellower was no guest! Lad looked at his gods for information.
“Down, Lad!” said the Master very gently, his voice not quite steady. ,
Lad, perplexed but obedient, dropped to the floor.
“The brute tried to kill my boy!” stormed the Wall Street Farmer right dramatically as he caught the howling Morty up in his arms to study the extent of the wound.
“He’s my guest! He’s my guest! HE’S MY GUEST!” the Master was saying over and over to himself. “Lord, help me to keep on remembering he’s my GUEST!”
The Mistress came forward.
“Lad would sooner die than hurt a child,” she declared, trying not to think of the wrecked heirloom chair. “He loves children. Here, let me see Morty’s hand. Why, those are claw marks! Cat scratches!”
“Ve nassy cat scwatched me!” bawled Morty. “Kill her, daddy! I twied to. I twied to frow her in ve fire. But ve mizz’ble dog wouldn’t let me! Kill her, daddy! Kill ve dog too!”
The Master’s mouth flew wide open.
“Won’t you go down to the paddock, dear,” hastily interposed the Mistress, “and see if the sheep are all right? Take Lad along with you.”
Lad, alone of all The Place’s dogs, had the run of the house, night and day, of the sacred dining room. During the rest of that day he did not avail himself of his high privilege. He kept out of the way—perplexed, woebegone, his burns still paining him despite the Master’s ministrations.
After talking long and loudly all evening of his sheep’s peerless quality and of their certain victory over all comers in the fair the Wall Street Farmer consented at last to go to bed. And silence settled over The Place.
In the black hour before dawn, that same silence was split in a score of places—split into a most horrible cacophony of sound that sent sleep scampering to the winds.
It was the mingling of yells and bleats and barks and the scurry of many feet. It burst out all at once in full force, lasting for some seconds with increasing clangor; then died to stillness.
By that time every human on The Place was out of bed. In more or less rudimentary attire the house’s inhabitants trooped down into the lower hall. There the Wall Street Farmer was raving noisily and was yanking at a door bolt whose secret he could not fathom.
“It’s my sheep!” he shouted. “That accursed dog of yours has gotten at them. He’s slaughtering them. I heard the poor things bleating and I heard him snarling among them. They cost me—”
“If you’re speaking of Lad,” blazed the Master, “he’s—”
“Here are the flashlights,” interposed the Mistress. “Let me open that door for you. I understand the bolt.”
Out into the dark they went, all but colliding with McGillicuddy. The Scot, awakened like the rest, had gone to the paddock. He had now come back to report the paddock’ empty and all the sheep gone.
“It’s the collie tike!” sputtered McGillicuddy. “I’ll tak’ oath to it. I ken it’s him. I suspeecioned him a’ long, from how he garred at oor sheep the day. He—”
“I said so!” roared the Wall Street Farmer. “The murderous brute! First, he tries to kill Morty. And now he slaughters my sheep. You-”
The Master started to speak. But a white little hand, in the darkness, was laid gently across his mouth.
“You told me he always slept under the piano in your music room!” accused the guest as the four made their way paddockward, lighting a path with the electric flashlights. “Well, I looked there just now. He isn’t under the piano. He—He—”
“Lad!” called the Master; then at the top of his lungs, “Lad!”
A distant growl, a snarl, a yelp, a scramble—and presently Lad appeared in the farthest radius of the flashlight flare.
For only a moment he stood there. Then he wheeled about and vanished in the dark. Nor had the Master the voice to call him back. The momentary glimpse of the great collie, in the merciless gleam of the lights, had stricken the whole party into an instant’s speechlessness.
Vividly distinct against the darkness they had seen Lad. His well-groomed coat was rumpled. His eyes were fireballs. And—his jaws were red with blood. Then he had vanished.
A groan from the Master—a groan of heartbreak—was the first sound from the four. The dog he loved was a killer. “It isn’t true! It isn’t true!” stoutly declared the Mistress.
The Wall Street Farmer and McGillicuddy had already broken into a run. The shepherd had found the tracks of many little hoofs on the dewy ground. And he was following the trail. The guest, swearing and panting, was behind him. The Mistress and the Master brought up the rear.
At every step they peered fearfully around them for what they dreaded to see—the mangled body of some slain sheep. But they saw none. And they followed the trail.
In a quarter mile they came to its end.
All four flashlights played simultaneously upon a tiny hillock that rose from the meadow at the forest edge. The hillock was usually green. Now it was white.
Around its short slopes was huddled a flock of sheep, as close-ringed as though by a fence. At the hillock’s summit sat Lad. He was sitting there in a queer attitude, one of his snowy forepaws pinning something to the ground—something that could not be clearly distinguished through the huddle, but which, evidently, was no sheep.
The Wall Street Farmer broke the tense silence with a gobbled exclamation.
“Whisht!” half-reverently interrupted the shepherd, who had been circling the hillock on census duty. “There’s na a sheep gone, nor—so far’s I can see—a sheep hurted. The fu’ twenty is there.”
The Master’s flashlight found a gap through which its rays could reach the hillock crest. The light revealed, under Lad’s gently pinioning forepaw, the crouching and badly scared Melisande—the $1,100 Prussian sheep dog.
McGillicuddy, with a grunt, was off on another and longer tour of inspection. Presently he came back. He was breathing hard.
Even before McGillicuddy made his report the Master had guessed at the main points of the mystery’s solution.
Melisande, weary of captivity, had gnawed through her leash. Seeking sport, she had gone to the paddock. There she had easily worried loose the crazy gate latch. Just as she was wriggling through, Lad appeared from the veranda.
He had tried to drive back the would-be killer from her prey. Lad was a veteran of several battles. But, apart from her sex, Melisande was no opponent for him. And he had treated her accordingly. Melisande had snapped at him, cutting him deeply in the underjaw. During the scrimmage the panic-urged sheep had bolted out of the paddock and had scattered.
Remember, please, that Lad, ten hours earlier, had never in his life seen a sheep. But remember, too, that a million of his ancestors had won their right to a livelihood by their almost supernatural skill at herding flocks. Let this explain what actually happened—the throwback of a great collie’s instinct.
Driving the scared and subdued Melisande before him—and ever hampered by her unwelcome presence—Lad proceeded to round up the scattered sheep. He was in the midst of the process when the Master called him. Merely galloping back for an instant, and finding the summons was not repeated, he returned to his atavistic task.
In less than five minutes the twenty scampering runaways were “ringed” on the hillock. And, still keeping the Prussian sheep dog out of mischief, Lad established himself in the ring’s center.
Further than that, and the keeping of the ring intact, his primal instincts did not serve him. Having rounded up his flock Lad had not the remotest idea what to do with them. So he merely held them there until the noisily gabbling humans should decide to take the matter out of his care.
McGillicuddy examined every sheep separately and found not a scratch or a stain on any of them. Then he told in effect what has here been set down as to Lad’s exploit.
As he finished his recital McGillicuddy looked shamefacedly around him as though gathering courage for an irksome task. A sickly yellow dawn was crawling over the eastern mountains, throwing a ghostly glow on the shepherd’s dour and craggy visage. Drawing a long breath of resolve he advanced upon Lad. Dropping on one knee, his eyes on a level with the unconcernedly observant collie’s, McGillicuddy intoned:
“Laddie, ye’re a braw, braw dog. Ou, a canny dog! A sonsie dog, Laddie! I hae na met yer match this side o’ Kirkcaldy Brae. Gin ye’ll tak’ an auld fule’s apology for wrangin’ ye, an’ an auld fule’s hand in gude fellowship, ’twill pleasure me, Laddie. Winna ye let bygones be bygones, an’ shake?”
Yes, the speech was ridiculous, but no one felt like laughing, not even the Wall Street Farmer. The shepherd was gravely sincere and he knew that Lad would understand his burring words.
And Lad did understand. Solemnly he sat up. Solemnly he laid one white forepaw in the gnarled palm the kneeling shepherd outstretched to him. His eyes glinted in wise friendliness as they met the admiring gaze of the old man. Two born shepherds were face to face. Deep was calling unto deep.
Presently McGillicuddy broke the spell by rising abruptly to his feet. Gruffly he turned to the Master.
“There’s na wit, sir,” he growled, “in speirin’ will ye sell him. But—but I compliment ye on him, nanetheless.”
“That’s right; McGillicuddy’s right!” boomed the Wall Street Farmer, catching but part of his shepherd’s mumbled words. “Good idea! He is a fine dog. I see that now. I was prejudiced. I freely admit it. A remarkable dog. What’ll you take for him? Or—better yet, how would you like to swap, even, for Melisande?”
The Master’s mouth again flew ajar, and many sizzling words jostled each other in his throat. Before any of these could shame his hospitality by escaping, the Mistress hurriedly interposed:
“Dear, we left all the house doors wide open. Would you mind hurrying back ahead of us and seeing that everything is safe? And—will you take Lad with you?”
8
THE GOLD HAT
THE PLACE WAS IN THE NORTH JERSEY HINTERLAND, BACKED by miles of hill and forest, facing the lake that divided it from the village and the railroad and the other new-made smears which had been daubed upon Mother Nature’s smiling face in the holy name of Civilization. The lonely situation of The Place made Lad’s self-appointed guardianship of its acres no sinecure at all. The dread of his name spread far —carried by hobo and by less harmless intruder.
Ten miles to northward of The Place, among the mountains of this same North Jersey hinterland, a man named Glure had bought a rambling old wilderness farm. By dint of much money, more zeal and most dearth of taste, he had caused the wilderness to blossom like the Fifth Proposition of Euclid. He had turned bosky wildwood into chaste picnic-grove plaisaunces, lush meadows into sunken gardens, a roomy colonial farmstead into something between a feudal castle and a roadhouse. And, looking on his work, he had seen that it was good.
This Beautifier of the Wilderness was a financial giantlet, who had lately chosen to amuse himself, after work hours, by what he called “farming.” Hence the purchase and renovation of the five-hundred-acre tract, the building of model farms, the acquisition of priceless livestock, and the hiring of a battalion of skilled employees. Hence, too, his dearly loved and self-given title of “Wall Street Farmer.” His name, I repeat, was Glure.
Having established himself in the region, the Wall Street Farmer undertook most earnestly to reproduce the story-book glories of the life supposedly led by mid- Victorian country gentlemen. Not only in respect to keeping open house and in alternately patronizing and bullying the peasantry, but in filling his gun-room shelves with cups and other trophies won by his livestock.
To his “open house” few of the neighboring families came. The local peasantry—Jersey mountaineers of Revolutionary stock, who had not the faintest idea they were “peasantry” and who, indeed, had never heard of the word —alternately grinned and swore at the Wall Street Farmer’s treatment of them, and mulcted him of huge sums for small services. But Glure’s keenest disappointment—a disappointment that crept gradually up toward the monomania point—was the annoyingly continual emptiness of his trophy shelves.
When, for instance, he sent to the Paterson Livestock Show a score of his pricelessly imported merino sheep, under his more pricelessly imported Scotch shepherd, Mr. McGillicuddy—the sheep came ambling back to Glure Towers Farm bearing no worthier guerdon than a single third-prize yellow silk rosette and a “Commended” ribbon. First and second prizes, as well as the challenge cup, had gone to flocks owned by vastly inferior folk—small farmers who had no money wherewith to import the pick of the Scottish moors—farmers who had bred and developed their own sheep, with no better aid than personal care and personal judgment.
At the Hohokus Fair, too, the Country Gentleman’s imported Holstein bull, Tenebris, had had to content himself with a measly red rosette in token of second prize, while the silver cup went to a bull owned by an elderly North Jersey-man of low manners, who had bred his own entry and had bred the latter’s ancestors for forty years back.
It was discouraging, it was mystifying. There actually seemed to be a vulgar conspiracy among the down-at-heel rural judges—a conspiracy to boost second-rate stock and to turn a blind eye to the virtues of overpriced transatlantic importations.
It was the same in the poultry shows and in hog exhibits. It was the same at the County Fair horse trots. At one of these trots the Wall Street Farmer, in person, drove his $9,000 English colt. And a rangy Hackensack gelding won all three heats. In none of the three did Glure’s colt get within hailing distance of the wire before at least two other trotters had clattered under it.
(Glure’s English head groom was called on the carpet to explain why a colt that could do a neat 2.13 in training was beaten out in a 2.17 trot. The groom lost his temper and his place. For he grunted, in reply, “The colt was all there. It was the driving did it.”)
The gun room’s glassed shelves in time were gay with ribbon. But only two of the three primary colors were represented there—blue being conspicuously absent. As for cups —the burglar who should break into Glure Towers in search of such booty would find himself the worse off by a wage-less night’s work.
Then it was that the Wall Street Farmer had his Inspiration. Which brings us by easy degrees to the Hampton Dog Show.
Even as the Fiery Cross among the Highland crags once flashed signal of War, so, when the World War swirl sucked nation after nation into its eddy, the Red Cross flamed from one end of America to the other, as the common rallying point for those who, for a time, must do their fighting on the hither side of the gray seas. The country bristled with a thousand money-getting functions of a thousand different kinds; with one objective—the Red Cross.
So it happened at last that North Jersey was posted, on state road and byway, with flaring placards announcing a Mammoth Outdoor Specialty Dog Show, to be held under the auspices of the Hampton Branch of the American National Red Cross, on Labor Day.
Mr. Hamilcar Q. Glure, the announcement continued, had kindly donated the use of his beautiful grounds for the Event, and had subscribed three hundred dollars toward its running expenses and prizes.
. Not only were the usual dog classes to be judged, but an added interest was to be supplied by the awarding of no less than fifteen Specialty Trophies.
Mr. Glure, having offered his grounds and the initial three hundred dollars, graciously turned over the details of the Show to a committee, whose duty it was to suggest popular Specialties and to solicit money for the cups.
Thus, one morning, an official letter was received at The Place, asking the Master to enter all his available dogs for the Show—at one dollar apiece for each class—and to contribute, if he should so desire, the sum of fifteen dollars besides, for the purchase of a Specialty Cup.
The Mistress was far more excited over the coming event than was the Master. And it was she who suggested the nature of the Specialty for which the fifteen-dollar cup should be offered.
