Soon all the kids were together on the third-base line rooting for the home team, which won the game in the ninth when Winkie Purvis hit a triple into the crowd in right field with two men on base. Then came the trotting races, which were run in heats. Some of the fastest horses for miles around were entered in these races. Luke, who had never seen trotting races in the city, was delighted; the town suddenly became a wonderful place to live in.
On the way home they talked cheerfully about the fair. They were hungry and glad to get home. When the car turned up the road and approached the house, Luke expected to hear Dan bark and come running to the car.
“Where’s that old dog?” Uncle Henry asked.
“I guess he’s on the veranda,” Luke said.
“Looks as if we haven’t got a watchdog any more,” Uncle Henry said casually.
When they got out of the car there was Dan on the veranda sleeping peacefully.
Aunt Helen bustled around the kitchen with Luke helping her and following her instructions accurately. Working for Aunt Helen in the kitchen was something like working for Uncle Henry in the mill. The little tasks she had assigned to Luke had to be done smoothly and neatly or she lost patience. Her face shone with energetic determination. A big white apron now covered her good flowered chintz dress. In her kitchen she was as dominating a figure as Uncle Henry was in the mill.
Uncle Henry ate an enormous meal, and finally leaned back and took a cigar from his vest pocket. Puffing on his cigar, he ambled out to the veranda where the collie was sleeping. With a sigh he sat down in the rocking chair, put his head back and began to enjoy his cigar. After Luke and Aunt Helen had washed the dishes, they joined Uncle Henry on the veranda. At that time of day, with only a few red streaks of sunlight on the water, it was cool and pleasant. Luke was sitting on the steps, his back against the veranda post; the collie was sleeping behind Uncle Henry’s chair; and Aunt Helen, sighing blissfully, had stretched herself out in the hammock. “Well, there’s another day,” she murmured.
Luke always enjoyed sitting with them on the veranda after dinner. At that hour they all seemed to belong to each other. Not that anything much was said. It was not the time for important conversations. No one expected him to be alert and attentive. It was the hour of twilight peacefulness around the mill when it was considered respectable to be a little lazy and indolent while Uncle Henry was digesting his dinner.
Then Luke, who had been eyeing the sleeping collie, began to tap the veranda with his fingers as if he were a telegrapher tapping out a message. The three long taps, the three short ones were like a signal to Dan. The old collie, lifting his head, got up stiffly, stretched, half shook himself, wagged his tail in a lazy acknowledgment that the signal had been heard, and began to cross the veranda to Luke.
But the sleepy dog had his bad eye to the rocking chair where Uncle Henry, rocking lazily back and forth, made the veranda boards squeak. In passing the chair Dan’s left front paw went under the rocker just as it came down. The paw was crushed. With a frantic yelp the dog went bounding down the steps and hobbled around the corner of the house. There he stopped for he heard Luke coming after him. All the dog needed was the touch of Luke’s hand; he was soothed; as if apologizing, he began to lick the boy’s hand.
“What on earth— ” Uncle Henry had cried as he jumped out of the chair. Aunt Helen, too, had been so startled she had nearly fallen out of the hammock.
“Oh my goodness,” Aunt Helen said in a scolding tone. “I was dozing. What happened? I got such a start.”
“It was nothing,” Uncle Henry said, but he was watching Luke and the dog. He, too, had been startled. Now he had the mildly outraged feeling of a man who has jumped in alarm only to find that the noise that scared him was not worth noticing; he was ruffled and indignant. But as he went on watching the dog, he became calm and meditative. For the first time in months the dog had his shrewd and full attention.
“Luke,” Uncle Henry called sharply. “Bring that dog here.”
When Luke led the dog back to the veranda, Uncle Henry said quietly, “Thanks, Luke.” Taking out a cigar he lit it, put his hands on his knees and frowned and eyed the dog steadily. Obviously he was making some kind of an important decision about the collie.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Henry?” Luke asked nervously.
“That dog can’t see any more,” Uncle Henry said.
“Oh, yes he can,” Luke said quickly. “His bad eye got turned to the chair, that’s all, Uncle Henry.”
“Poor old fellow,” Uncle Henry went on, scratching his head and frowning. “His eyesight’s just about gone. He’s through, all right. Just eating and sleeping and getting in the way. The other day I tripped over him on the veranda. Can’t even use him for a watchdog now.”
“Uncle Henry,” Luke said quickly, “you don’t want to make a mistake about it. Dan knows everything that goes on around here.”
“Yeah,” Uncle Henry said, but he wasn’t paying much attention to Luke. “Helen,” he said, turning to his wife, “sit up a minute, will you?”
“Oh, dear, I was just cooling off, Henry.”
“It’s about this poor old dog.”
“What about him?”
“I was thinking about Dan the other day. It’s not just that Dan’s about blind, but did you notice that when we drove up before dinner he didn’t even bark?”
“That’s a fact, Henry, he didn’t, come to think of it.”
“No, not much good even for a watchdog now.”
“Uncle Henry,” Luke said desperately, “just a minute.” As Uncle Henry turned to him idly, Luke went closer to him until he was standing right at the arm of the chair and talking to him as he had never talked before, talking openly and firmly and as if they had a deep respect for each other.
“Dan is a strange old dog, Uncle Henry,” he said. “Well, you know what he’s like, only maybe you haven’t been looking at him the last while as much as I have.” Fumbling a little, his eyes shifted to his aunt, then back to his uncle’s eyes; and because the faraway meditative expression was still in Uncle Henry’s eye, Luke wanted to find elegant words that would bring Uncle Henry close to him and make him attentive.
“Dan can lie there on the veranda and know every little thing that’s going on, Uncle Henry,” he said. “I’ve found that out. I can pass on the veranda and Dan will seem to be asleep but his eye will flicker open. He’ll know it’s me by the step, just as he knows your step and Aunt Helen’s step, and the step of everybody that belongs around here. It’s the same with all kinds of noises, Uncle Henry. He knows what noises belong around this place. And of course he knows the sound of our car. I’ve found that out. I’ll bet you anything, Uncle Henry, that when you drove up today and Dan was sleeping on the veranda, his eye opened and he listened, and when he recognized the sound of our car he knew it was all right and he knew he didn’t have to come leaping out. If it was another car, he could have told us about it as soon as he heard the engine on the road. I can tell the sound of our car, and so can Dan. That’s why he didn’t come out, Uncle Henry.”
“Why, that’s quite a speech, my boy,” Uncle Henry said admiringly.
“Well, it’s the truth, Uncle Henry.”
“Did you hear Luke, Helen? The boy could make a fine lawyer when he grows up. Hm, hm,” he said, smiling a little.
Growing serious again, he went on, “But even so, Luke,” and he made a clucking noise in his throat and glanced again at Dan, “supposing the dog knows the familiar sounds. What good does it do? His eyes are gone, he’s slow and lazy, and the plain fact is that his teeth are gone too . . .”
“Why, those teeth could tear a man to pieces, Uncle Henry.”
“Hm. And he’s no good for hunting either,” Uncle Henry went on. “And he eats a lot, I suppose, Helen?”
“About as much as he ever did, Henry,” Aunt Helen said with a shrug. It was the shrug and her tone that frightened Luke. This conversation was not really important to Aunt Helen. Uncl
e Henry was at least making a decision but Aunt Helen was hardly concerned. Luke couldn’t even bear to look at her, for her plump pink face with the little drops of moisture on her upper lip frightened him even more than Uncle Henry’s calmness.
“The plain fact is the old dog isn’t worth his keep any more,” Uncle Henry said. After a little pause he shrugged and his mind was made up. “Well,” he said, “that’s that. It’s time we got rid of him. Of course you’re fond of him, Luke. We are, too. We’ve been mighty good to him. And even now we have to do what’s good for him,” he explained gently. “We have to do the sensible thing even if we don’t like it.”
They had heard Luke’s plea for the dog; they had heard him offer his judgment; but to them it was a boy’s judgment, sentimental, dreamy, childish and inevitable; it was not to have any weight with Uncle Henry when he was solemnly coming to a practical conclusion. Realizing that what he might say wasn’t going to have any influence, Luke waited stiffly and their words seemed to pound against his heart.
“It’s always hard to know how to get rid of an old dog, Henry,” Aunt Helen said with a sigh.
“That’s a fact, Helen. I was thinking about it the other day. Some people think it best to shoot a dog. Easier on the dog and so on. Maybe it is. But I haven’t had any shells for that shotgun for over a year. Poisoning is a hard death for a dog. I’ve no use for people who poison their dogs. I certainly wouldn’t do it myself. Maybe drowning is the easiest and quickest way. Well, I’ll speak to one of the mill hands and have him look after it.”
Crouching on the veranda, his arms around the old dog’s head, Luke cried out, “Uncle Henry, Dan’s a wonderful dog. You don’t know how wonderful a dog he is.”
“Yes, he’s been a fine dog, Luke,” Uncle Henry agreed, puffing on the cigar. As Luke watched the blue smoke drifting across the veranda, he wondered why the right words which would explain how wonderful Dan was wouldn’t come; he couldn’t even find any words; he only felt bewildered. All the ways in which Dan was wonderful he had felt many times, but now it was all only a feeling which could not be explained persuasively.
“You see, my boy,” Uncle Henry went on in a kindly tone, “I know you like Dan, and we’ve always liked Dan, too. The time comes when you have to get rid of any old dog no matter how much you like him. Surely you have the sense to see that, Luke. We’ve got to be practical about it. It’s best for the dog. Dan’s had a long life and a good easy one and now he’s in the way. He doesn’t earn his keep and he has to be fed. What else is there to do?”
“Let him stay around, Uncle Henry – please.”
“With a horse or a dog, Luke, there comes a time when you have to do the sensible thing. You have to be practical. It isn’t that I don’t want a dog around here. We should have a dog around here. One that will be useful and worth his keep. So I’ll get you a pup, my boy. A fine smart little dog that will become useful. A pup that will grow up with you, Luke.”
“I don’t want a pup,” Luke cried, turning his face away. He didn’t want Uncle Henry to see the tears in his eyes. If Uncle Henry saw the tears, it would only convince him that Luke was very young and inclined to be impractical; he would be all the more firmly convinced that Luke needed instruction in good hard common sense.
Circling around, the dog began to bark, then flick his tongue at the back of Luke’s neck to show him he understood that he was unhappy.
On the veranda there was a long silence, and the twilight deepened, and up the road from Mr. Kemp’s place came the moo of a cow, then the silence again, and then from behind the woods the lonely cry of a freight train. The shadows of the bush had fallen across the river, which was a deep olive green now.
Catching her husband’s eye, Aunt Helen put her fingers warningly to her lips. It was foolish to go on talking in front of the boy. Being a kindly woman she felt sorry for Luke; but she believed her husband was sensible enough to be concerned not only with what was best for the dog but what in the long run would be best for Luke, too. No one liked to see a faithful old dog disposed of; but on the other hand there was an end on earth to the life of every living thing; Uncle Henry knew better than anybody when a life was no longer useful. A boy’s emotions were changeable. What seemed unbearably sorrowful at one moment could be forgotten two days later. And all that was needed, she believed, was a little tact.
“An old dog like Dan gets a feeling in his bones that his days are over,” she said lightly. “The time and the season. You know what I mean, don’t you, Henry, and I think Dan has had that feeling for some time.”
“Oh, sure,” Uncle Henry agreed.
“An old dog like Dan often disappears quietly,” she said. “When its time they often wander off into the brush and pick a place to die. Isn’t that so, Henry?” she asked pointedly.
“Oh, sure,” he agreed again. “In fact when Dan didn’t show up yesterday, I was sure that was what had happened to him. In fact that’s probably what will happen to him. So we don’t have to worry about how to dispose of him. Forget it, Luke,” he said, and he yawned, and seemed to forget about the dog himself.
But Luke knew his uncle did not reach a practical decision after a lot of pondering and then idly forget about it. To Uncle Henry a decision arrived at was as good as an action taken. Uncle Henry had no use for men who knew what should be done and weakly avoided action for sentimental reasons. So Luke was frightened. If Uncle Henry had decided to dispose of the collie, he would be ashamed of himself if he were diverted by a boy’s affection for him.
“Well, I think I’ll take a little walk,” Luke said self-consciously.
“It’s getting dark, Luke. Don’t go far,” Aunt Helen said. “It feels a little like rain to me.”
“No, it’s not going to rain,” Uncle Henry said firmly.
“I’ll just be down by the river,” Luke said. As he started down the path, Dan got up and followed him.
At the river’s edge he sat on a rock, his hand on the dog’s head, staring across at the great tree shadows which were closing over the river and closing over him. A few stars were out. Beyond the mouth of the river was the smooth glowing line of the lake. In that light the lake always glowed; and when the darkness deepened the glowing line faded into the horizon, and when the moon came out there was the long glowing ladder of moonlight. His heart seemed to be jerking painfully. Though he tried to think, he was aware of nothing but the jerking thump against his ribs.
“Come on, Dan,” he said, and he followed the river right down to the mouth and went along the beach a hundred yards. It was dark now and the moon was suddenly obscured by a mass of heavy clouds. A breeze came up. Standing on the beach with the dog beside him, he stared into the blackness of the lake. A wind ruffled the water. The wind came sudden and strong, blowing his pants against his legs, blowing his hair back, and the dog, his fur ruffled in the wind, looked up at him, mystified by his silence and the way he was staring across the darkening lake. Sometimes Dan would look out there, too, as if trying to see what held Luke’s attention.
“You know something, Dan,” Luke said, “it may rain after all.” The sound of his own voice talking to the dog broke his strange inert loneliness. He suddenly longed to be able to think clearly. If he could fight for Dan as he had been willing to fight the big dog, Thor, it would be easy; he could win. But he couldn’t hit Uncle Henry on the head as he had hit Thor. He couldn’t struggle with Uncle Henry because Dan belonged to Uncle Henry. Not only was Uncle Henry Dan’s owner, he was also the guardian and owner of him, Luke. They both belonged to Uncle Henry, who was the final implacable authority in their lives and a man who never yielded authority.
In his heart Luke knew that he couldn’t move his uncle. All he could do, he thought, was to keep the dog away from him, keep him out of the house, feed him when Uncle Henry wasn’t around.
“Come on, Dan,” he said. “I don’t want them looking for us, or calling us, or noticing us at all,” and he led the way back to the house and through the living r
oom where his aunt and his uncle were reading peacefully, and up to his own room.
When he had got undressed he sat on the bed with Dan and tried to tell himself that if Uncle Henry didn’t notice the collie for a few days he might forget about him, especially if he were busy at the mill. After all, the collie was utterly unimportant in Uncle Henry’s life. Months ago he had intended to get rid of the collie and had kept putting it off.
It started to rain, and there was a flash of lightning across the lake. The wind rose and the waves began to roll on the shore. The wind blew through the open window. The rain began to drum on the roof. “Uncle Henry was wrong,” he thought. “It did rain.” It was a hopeful sign. Finally Luke lay back on the bed, and before he fell asleep with his arm around Dan’s neck, he remembered his uncle’s face as he sniffed the smell of the fresh wood and said, “Ah, that’s a delightful smell,” and that also was a hopeful sign.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Where the River Was Deep
In the morning, the shaft of bright sunlight across Luke’s face woke him and he sat up quickly, calling, “Dan.” He heard the scraping and stirring on the floor at the end of the bed, and relaxed in relief. “Just was wondering, Dan,” he whispered.
Having dressed, he hurried downstairs, let the dog out and returned to have breakfast with his aunt and uncle. And it seemed like any other breakfast on any other morning, with Uncle Henry being jolly and friendly and Aunt Helen insisting that Luke eat heartily. Usually Luke squirmed a bit when she pressed him to eat; now it seemed that what happened to him was very important to her. That was what he wanted. He wanted to believe they were concerned about his health and happiness and about anything that might trouble him.
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