CHAPTER XIII
THE PASSING OF RAGS
Camp Britches was pitched on a Wednesday, and the first week flew byon winged feet. On the second Saturday an event occurred which theboys had been looking forward to with anticipation. Mr. Hartshorn camein his car to spend Sunday at the camp. He brought none of his dogswith him, which was a source of regret, but he was a most welcomevisitor, nevertheless.
The boys feared that the appointments of their camp might not be quiteelegant enough for a man like Mr. Hartshorn, but he fitted in asthough he had been brought up to just that sort of thing and said itwas all bully. Frank Stoddard moved out and crowded into the othertent, and a special bed was laid for the visitor. Moses outdid himselfin planning his Sunday menu.
Mr. Hartshorn arrived too late to be shown about the lake that day,but supper was a jolly meal and a new interest was added to thecampfire hour that night.
Mr. Hartshorn had shown considerable interest in MacTavish and Rover,both of whom he pronounced to be fine dogs, and this led to ageneral discussion of sheepdogs and their kin.
"I wish you'd tell us something about bob-tails, Mr. Hartshorn," saidElliot Garfield. "I really don't know a thing about them, and I oughtto, now I've got one."
"Please do," echoed Ernest Whipple. "You promised you'd tell us aboutthe shepherd breeds sometime."
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, laughing, "it's pretty near bedtime,anyway, so if I put you to sleep it won't much matter. For my ownpart, though, I'd rather listen to another of Alfred's stories."
The night was chilly, so he went to his car and got his auto robe,wrapped himself up in it, lighted a cigar, and settled himselfcomfortably beside the campfire.
"You may have noticed," he began, "that some breeds of dogs seem topossess more individual character than others. Foxhounds, for example,seem to me a good deal alike. That is because they live and workmostly in packs. It is the constant association of a single dog withhis master that develops the traits of personality in him. No dogshave had this personality more highly developed than the shepherdbreeds, for they have been the shepherds' personal companions, oftentheir only companions, for generations. They are, therefore, mostinteresting dogs to know and to talk about.
"Of these shepherd breeds the best known is the collie. It is, infact, one of the most popular and numerous of all the breeds. Themodern collie, of which Mac here is a good example, has been developedfor beauty, as a show dog and companion rather than a working dog, buthe is a direct descendant of the old working collie of the ScottishHighlands, which has been a distinct breed and has been used as ashepherd's dog for centuries. The old working collie or shepherd dog,which is still numerous in Scotland, is a splendid utility animal ofgreat intelligence and initiative, brave as a lion, and trained toguard sheep.
"Though a straight development without much crossing with otherbreeds, the modern collie is almost a different variety, with anarrower head and muzzle, better pointed ears, and a fuller and finercoat. From the fancier's point of view he is a great improvement onthe working dog, and he certainly is handsomer, but in my own humbleopinion the fanciers are well-nigh ruining the splendid character ofone of the best breeds of dogs ever given to man. For one thing, theyhave made the head so narrow and snipey, imitating that of the Russianwolfhound, that they have left insufficient room in the skull for allthe brains the old collie used to possess. And with this fineness ofbreeding has come some uncertainty of disposition. The modern collieisn't usually given a chance to learn the things his forefathers knew,so how can we expect the same mental development? Mac, I am glad tosay, is not of the extreme type. He would doubtless be beaten in theshows, but he is a better dog, for all that. The older type used to bemore common here, but has gradually been driven out by the show typewhich began to be taken up about 1880.
Collie]
"The Scotch are great people for dog stories, and a good many of theirtales are about collies. Bob, Son of Battle, was an old-fashionedcollie. Many of the anecdotes that are told as true stories dealwith the breed's wonderful sagacity in caring for sheep. There was theEttrick Shepherd's famous collie Sirrah, for example. He couldundoubtedly do amazing things with sheep. One night something scaredthe lambs, and they started off for the hills, dividing into threegroups. The shepherd called his dog and his assistant and started outin the hope of rounding up at least one of the groups before morning.But the night was dark and the hills a wilderness, and the two menwere at last forced to give up the attempt until daylight. At dawn,when they started out again, what was their astonishment to see Sirrahcoming in with the lost lambs--not one group only, but the wholeflock. How he managed to get one group after the other, no one couldever say, but between midnight and dawn he rounded them all up alone,and not one was missing.
"This herding instinct is very strong in the collie. I once met amodern collie in Des Moines, Iowa, who, because he had no sheep toattend to, busied himself with the chickens, and he would neverconsider his day's work finished until he had carefully herded all theRhode Island Reds into one corner of the poultry yard, and all thePlymouth Rocks into another.
"Cases are on record of collies that were taught to steal for theirmasters, by systematically driving off sheep from neighboringflocks. Many stories deal with the collie's intelligence in fetchinghelp to a man or animal in danger. One collie brought in a flock ofhalf-frozen hens, one by one, that had strayed away from the barnyardand got caught in a blizzard. He carried them tenderly in his mouth,depositing them in a row before the open fire. Another collie broughthome a strayed horse by the bridle.
"Shepherd collies are wonderful with the sheep, but the so-calledhouse collie is often more generally wise and adaptable. Hector, a sonof Sirrah, was such a dog, and his master, a Mr. Hogg of Ettrick, hastold many amusing stories about him. He was always getting intomischief, and Mr. Hogg's mother vowed he should never go visiting withher, for, as she put it, 'he was always fighting with other dogs,singing music, or breeding some uproar or other.' But with all that,he was so intelligent, and seemed to understand so many things inadvance, that she used to say, 'I think the beast is no canny.'
"His master's father was one of the church elders of the place, and atone time accepted the post of precentor. He knew only one tunewell--'St. Paul's'--and this he used to give out twice each Sunday. Tosave the congregation from too great a dose of 'St. Paul's,' the sonagreed to relieve him of his duties. But here Hector, accustomed tohis master's company on Sundays, objected. He would follow him tochurch, and when he heard his master's voice inside, he would raisehis in the churchyard, much to the amusement of the shepherds and thecountry lassies. 'Sometimes,' said Mr. Hogg, 'there would be only thetwo of us joining in the hymn.' The result was that he was forced toresign, and the church was obliged to carry on as best it could withthe old precentor and 'St. Paul's.'
"Hector exhibited strange motives and peculiar logic sometimes. He wasjealous of the house cat and hated her, but he never touched her orthreatened to do her any harm. He merely kept a suspicious eye on her,pointing her as a setter points a bird. He used to join in familyprayers, and just before the final 'Amen,' he would leap to his feetand dash madly about, barking loudly. It was easy to understand how heknew when the 'Amen' was approaching, but why the excitement thatfollowed? 'I found out by accident,' wrote Mr. Hogg. 'As we werekneeling there, he thought we were all pointing Pussy, and he wantedto be among the first at the death.'
"Next we come to Rover's breed. Old English sheepdog is its officialname, but I think it might better be called the bob-tailed sheepdog todistinguish it from the original smooth sheepdog of England. In manyrespects it is quite unlike any other breed that comes from England.He was formerly used by English drovers as a cattle dog, but we knowlittle of his history. The bob-tail is the hairiest of the large dogsand one of the most striking of all breeds in appearance. Some of thepuppies are born tailless, while others have their tails removedwithin a few days after birth. The bob-tail is an active, swift,intelligent dog and, as you know if yo
u have watched Rover, veryplayful and very expressive with his paws. Having no tail to wag, hewags his whole hind quarters to let you know he is pleased orfriendly.
"The German shepherd dog has had a remarkable boom since itsintroduction here in 1912. It is an old breed in Germany and itsappearance strongly suggests wolf blood in its ancestry. Originally ashepherd's dog, and still used as such, this breed has shown itselfremarkably adaptable to police dog work and has been used in the warmore than any other breed. The German shepherd dog is not as gentlyaffectionate as some breeds, but is intelligent, active, alert, brave,and loyal.
"I think I should also speak of the Belgian sheepdog, partly becausewe are all interested in Belgium these days, and partly because wehave begun to get a few of these dogs over here. They are said to beeven cleverer police dogs than the Germans. A few have beensuccessfully used over here by police departments of New York andvicinity, and a few fanciers have become interested in theGroenendaele variety and have exhibited specimens in the Westminstershow."
"What do police dogs do?" inquired Herbie Pierson.
"I have never seen them at work on the other side," said Mr.Hartshorn, "but I understand they are a recognized part of the policeservice in many cities of France, Austria, Belgium, Holland, andGermany. They are said to do wonderful things, such as rounding upgangs of thieves, trailing criminals, and saving drowning persons,including would-be suicides. In this country their usefulness has beenrather the prevention of crime. I have visited the dog squad, in theFlatbush section of Brooklyn. There they are muzzled and are notexpected to attack people. They are taken out at night with thepatrolmen and scout around in back yards and anywhere that a burglaror hold-up man might be lurking. The criminals don't like that idea,and they have kept away from that section pretty consistently. Ibelieve these dogs have also found persons freezing in the snow.Airedales have been tried out as well as Belgian and German shepherddogs. For trailing criminals and finding lost persons, the bloodhoundis most commonly used in this country, but I believe some ratherremarkable feats of trailing have been accomplished by Belgiansheepdogs at Englewood and Ridgewood, New Jersey."
"They are used mostly as ambulance dogs in the war, aren't they?"asked Harry Barton.
"Yes," said Mr. Hartshorn. "You have probably seen pictures of thembringing in a wounded man's helmet, to guide the stretcher bearers towhere he lies. They are also used as messengers and for sentry duty inthe listening posts, where they are much quicker than the men todetect the approach of a raiding party or an enemy patrol. I couldtell you some interesting and thrilling stories that I've heard aboutthese war dogs, but I for one am getting sleepy and I'd like to tryout that balsam bed and see if I like it."
There was a little less skylarking that night out of respect to thehonored visitor, and so everyone got a good rest and was up betimes inthe morning. After breakfast Mr. Hartshorn asked to be shown about thecountry near the camp, and everybody joined in the expedition,including the dogs.
"I suppose these dogs are all pretty well acquainted with one anothernow," said Mr. Hartshorn, "but I must say it is wonderful how wellthey get along together. It all shows the power of humancompanionship. Kennel dogs like mine couldn't stand this sort ofthing for an hour. It must be that Rags and Rover keep them allgood-natured."
Sunday passed quietly and pleasantly and then came another eveningcampfire. Some of the boys begged Mr. Hartshorn to tell them aboutmore breeds of dogs, but he laughingly refused.
"Sometime I'll tell you about the hound and greyhound families, butnot now. You've had enough," said he. "Besides, I came here to loaf,not to teach a class. Let's have one of Alfred's stories."
"I'm afraid I've told them all," said Alfred. "I've tried to think ofmore, but I guess there aren't any."
"We've all told our stock of stories," said Horace. "You're the onlyone with a fresh supply. I guess it's up to you, Mr. Hartshorn."
"The trouble is," said he, "I'm no story teller, but I'll read yousomething, if you'd like to hear it. I have quite a library of dogliterature, both fact and fiction, and I've tried to collect everygood thing that has been written about dogs. I selected two storiesthat are fairly short and brought them along, thinking there mightdevelop a need for entertainment of that kind. Would you like to hearthem?"
A shout of unanimous approval went up. Two of the boys ran to Mr.Hartshorn's car for the books, and another brought a lighted lanternand placed it on a box at his elbow. Then they grouped themselvesabout the fire again and listened with absorbed attention while heread them two of the best short dog stories in his collection--"TheBar Sinister," by Richard Harding Davis, and "Stikeen" by John Muir.
"My! Aren't those fine!" exclaimed Ernest Whipple.
"Haven't you any more?" begged Elliot Garfield.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I'm sorry to say I haven't any more withme, but I shall be glad to lend my books to any of you boys who willpromise to return them. They are very precious. I'd like nothingbetter than to introduce you to the dogs of literature. They're agreat lot."
Then he proceeded to tell them something of the best known of thesebooks--"Bob, Son of Battle," Ouida's "A Dog of Flanders," JackLondon's stories, and a number of others.
"But I think," he concluded, "that the one I like best of all is thetrue story of a little Skye terrier named Greyfriars Bobby, one of themost faithful dogs that ever lived."
"Oh, please tell us about him," begged Frank Stoddard.
"No," said Mr. Hartshorn, "I would only spoil the story. You must readthe book for yourselves. It will give you something to do next winterwhen you can't go camping out, and I can promise you a rare treat."
The next morning Mr. Hartshorn was obliged to leave, and everyone wasup bright and early to see him off. He thanked them all for one of thejolliest week-ends he had ever spent, and promised to invite them to acampfire of reminiscence at Willowdale sometime. Then he got into hiscar and started the motor.
I presume he had never taken part in so boisterous a departure. Therough woods road was difficult enough to drive in at best, and theboys and dogs crowded about the car, shouting and barking theirfarewells. In spite of all Alfred and Horace could do, some of themore venturesome jumped upon the running boards and rode a little way,while the dogs, catching the spirit of excitement, dashed about infront and everywhere. Alfred and Horace rushed in to quiet theconfusion, but before they could get the boys and dogs in hand a sharpyelp of pain sounded and poor old Rags lay, a helpless, patheticfigure, in the wheel rut behind the car.
No one knew, in the confusion, just how it had happened. Mr. Hartshornhad been driving as slowly and carefully as he could underdifficulties. A moment before Rags had been barking riotously andleaping at the hand of his master who stood perched precariously onthe running board. Now he lay, mute and motionless, all the joy goneout of him, his eyes raised in dumb pleading to his master's face.
A sudden hush fell over the noisy crowd. Even the dogs seemed to knowthat something dreadful had happened. Mr. Hartshorn stopped his carand leaped out. Jimmie Rogers was kneeling on the ground beside hisbeloved dog, his face very white, and Rags was feebly trying to lickhis master's hand.
Jimmie did not weep or cry out, but when Mr. Hartshorn came up, therewas a pleading look in the eyes he lifted to the man's face which wasmuch like the look in the eyes of the dog. Jimmie did not ask anyquestions. He only moved over a little while Mr. Hartshorn leaned overand tenderly felt of poor Rags's broken body.
"I must have gone square over him with both wheels," said he. "Poorlittle Rags! I wouldn't have done it, old boy, if I'd seen you. Youknow that, don't you?"
The dog's forgiving tongue gave him his answer. Mr. Hartshorn did notscold the boys, but they all knew they had been to blame, and noamount of scolding could have made them feel any more remorseful. Theystood about in silent shame and dread. The irrepressible Mr. O'Brientrotted up to see what it was all about, sniffed at Rags, and thenwalked slowly away, raising questioning eyes to his master's face.
When Mr. Hartshorn arose he was winking very hard and biting his lip.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" asked Horace.
"I'm afraid so," said he. "We must get him away at once. Jump into thecar, Jimmie, and come along with me."
He made a soft bed of the auto robe on the floor of the car, liftedRags tenderly in his arms, and laid him on it.
"Watch him, and keep him as comfortable as possible," he directedJimmie.
That was all that was said, and the car started off again, leavinggrief and woe at Camp Britches.
Mr. Hartshorn lost no time in getting back to Boytown, though he wascareful not to subject the suffering dog to the pain of rough riding.At Boytown he jumped out and telegraphed to Bridgeport to command theattendance of the best veterinary surgeon in the state. Then they spedon to Willowdale.
They took Rags out to the little building that was used as a doghospital and made him as comfortable as they could. Mrs. Hartshornherself brought him a dish of water which he lapped gratefully. Hebore his pain heroically, but he was suffering terribly, and TomPoultice thought best to administer a merciful opiate. Then he made athorough examination.
"There's ribs broke," he said, "and I guess 'e's 'urt hinternal."
"Then there's nothing we can do?" asked Mr. Hartshorn.
Tom shook his head sorrowfully.
After awhile the effects of the drug wore off and Rags opened hiseyes. Tom put his hand on the dog's heart and shook his headdubiously.
"I'm afraid 'e's going, sir," said he.
Mr. Hartshorn placed his arm about Jimmie's heaving shoulders and drewhim toward the dog, who seemed to be begging for one last caress ofhis master's hand. Mrs. Hartshorn put her handkerchief to her eyes andhurried out.
The surgeon arrived soon after noon, but it was too late. Rags haddied in Jimmie's arms.
The Dogs of Boytown Page 13