The Dogs of Boytown

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.

It was a tense moment. Some of the little girls had begun to cry, and there was one young lady who gave way to hysterics. No one seemed to know what to do. It was awful to stand there and watch the little fellow drown before their eyes.

Then there came a sudden rush and a plunge and the black and white head of Remus appeared beside that of the drowning boy. Though an aristocrat of the bench show, this good dog had a brain that worked quickly and a heart that knew no fear.

It was a good thing that Remus had learned to be such a good swimmer in days gone by; he had need of all his strength and skill now. He seized the boy's collar in his teeth and struggled to drag him out. But it could not be done. The ice broke repeatedly under the dog's paws, and it was all he could do to keep the boy's head and his own above water. He could only struggle bravely and cast imploring looks toward the helpless humans. The water was ice-cold, of course, and it sapped the good dog's strength. His efforts weakened and he tried no more to climb out, but he never relaxed his hold. He would have gone down to his death with the boy before he would have done that.

Both heads went below the surface and came up again, and the dogged, imploring look deepened in Remus's eyes. Jack Whipple called words of encouragement, and it was pitiful to watch the noble dog's efforts to respond. It was wonderful the way he held out, and in the end he won. When it seemed as though the last atom of his strength must have been spent, Ernest Whipple came running up with a plank which he threw across the hole. Remus rested his paws on this and so was able to keep from going under, but he had no strength left to drag himself and the boy out. Eddie was now unconscious, and could not help himself. Then Elliot Garfield and two other boys arrived with boards and fence rails, and with these they built a sort of bridge across the dangerous gap. Theron crawled cautiously out upon this, with Harry Barton holding to his feet. He grasped Remus's collar, and with Harry's help dragged the boy and the dog to firm ice.

Eddie was seized in friendly arms and was rubbed and rolled until he revived. Remus fell, faint and trembling, to the ice, and Jack Whipple, unconscious of his own sobs, gathered the heroic dog to his breast.

CHAPTER XIX

EVERY DOG HIS DAY

Eddie Greene was hurried home and put to bed, and a doctor was called. For a day or so he was watched over with tender solicitude by his mother, but he soon insisted on getting up, and the doctor said that the danger was past. His healthy young body recuperated rapidly and he suffered no serious effects from his harrowing experience. In a few days he was running about as well as ever, and his parents, watching him, had good reason to bless the brave dog that had saved their boy's life.

But with Remus it was different. Almost immediately he showed signs of having contracted a severe cold. Weakened as he was by exposure and exhausted by his almost superhuman struggles in the water, he was in no condition to combat the malady, and pneumonia set in.

For days he lay dangerously ill on his bed in Rome, while Jack hoped and prayed in vain for a noticeable turn for the better. Tom Poultice came down and diagnosed the case and left some medicine, but still Remus failed to show much improvement. Sam Bumpus came, too, and did what he could, but he was forced to confess that the case was beyond his powers. Remus was very weak and seemed unable to rally. Jack Whipple was beside himself with anxiety.

When Remus had distemper he received visits from a good many of the boys in town, but that was nothing to the interest that was now displayed in him. The boys of the Humane Society hung about the Whipple gates at all hours of the day, vainly wishing that they might be of some help. Mr. Morton, Mr. Pierson, and other prominent citizens telephoned their inquiries. Mr. Fellowes came every day, and total strangers rang the doorbell to ask how the sick dog was getting on. All Boytown did its best to show honor and sympathy for the hero, but, alas, that brought no relief to the poor dog suffering on his bed in Rome.

For some time now Mrs. Whipple had been unconsciously displaying a different attitude toward the dogs. She never petted them; she was not yet ready to go quite so far. But she never said anything against dogs any more, and she had not concealed her pleasure and pride in the triumphs that had been won by both Romulus and Remus. And now that Remus was sick she made no attempt to conceal her anxiety, and answered all the inquiries patiently. One day Mr. Whipple observed her stealing out to Rome with a dish of warm broth, while the boys were in school, and he couldn't help smiling a little. The mother's heart had been won over at last.

There came a day when Remus seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and Tom Poultice was sent for again. Mr. Hartshorn himself brought Tom over in the car from Thornboro. Tom tested the sick dog's temperature and general condition and shook his head solemnly.

"I'm afraid it's come to a crisis," said he.

"Nothing more you can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.

"I'm afraid not, sir," said Tom.

"Then there's no time to be lost," said Mr. Hartshorn. "We must send for Dr. Runkle. I ought to have done it before."

They jumped into the car and drove down to the telegraph office.

The next day Dr. Runkle appeared with Tom and Mr. Hartshorn. He was the Bridgeport veterinary surgeon that had come too late to save poor Rags. Mr. Hartshorn considered him the best veterinarian in the state.

With gentle, skilful hands he made a thorough examination.

"A bad case of pneumonia," said he. "The first thing to do is to get him into a warmer place. This barn is all right for most things, but he needs some artificial heat now."

Mrs. Whipple was standing near, and Jack looked at her doubtfully. She did not hesitate. Apparently she had forgotten all about her vow never to allow the dogs into the house.

"Bring him right into the house," said she. "Jack, you go and get some of that burlap from the storeroom, and we'll make a bed for him in the kitchen."

Tom picked Remus up in his strong arms, and the little procession made its way up to the house. Bringing up the rear came Romulus, a subdued dog these last anxious days. His big eyes questioned the faces of his human friends for the meaning of it all. He could not speak, but no one showed a more genuine sympathy.

Never before had Romulus attempted to enter the house. Now he seemed to understand that the ban had been lifted. He followed quietly in through the door, and no one said him nay.

But I am happy to say that this story is not going to end sadly. I don't believe I could tell it if it did. Dr. Runkle stayed at Willowdale for three days, and each day he came down to attend his patient. At last his skill and knowledge and the constant careful nursing won the battle, and gradually Remus fought his way back to health. His splendid constitution and stout heart stood him in good stead, and once the crisis was passed, recovery was rapid and certain.