<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></SPAN>CHAPTER IX<br/> SPEAKING OF UTILITY</h2>
<p>The man huddled frowzily in the tree crotch,
like a rumpled and sick raccoon. At times
he would crane his thin neck and peer about
him, but more as if he feared rescue than as though
he hoped for it.</p>
<p>Then, before slumping back to his sick-raccoon
pose, he would look murderously earthward and
swear with lurid fervor.</p>
<p>At the tree foot the big dog wasted neither time
nor energy in frantic barking or in capering excitedly
about. Instead, he lay at majestic ease, gazing
up toward the treed man with grave attentiveness.</p>
<p>Thus, for a full half-hour, the two had remained—the
treer and the treed. Thus, from present
signs, they would continue to remain until
Christmas.</p>
<p>There is, by tradition, something intensely comic
in the picture of a man treed by a dog. The man,
in the present case, supplied the only element of
comedy in the scene. The dog was anything but
comic, either in looks or in posture.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>He was a collie, huge of bulk, massive of
shoulder, deep and shaggy of chest. His forepaws
were snowy and absurdly small. His eyes were seal-dark
and sorrowful—eyes that proclaimed not only
an uncannily wise brain, but a soul as well. In
brief, he was Lad; official guard of The Place's
safety.</p>
<p>It was in this rôle of guard that he was now
serving as jailer to the man he had seen slouching
through the undergrowth of the forest which grew
close up to The Place's outbuildings.</p>
<p>From his two worshipped deities—the Mistress
and the Master—Lad had learned in puppyhood the
simple provisions of the Guest Law. He knew, for
example, that no one openly approaching the house
along the driveway from the furlong-distant highroad
was to be molested. Such a visitor's advent—especially
at night—might lawfully be greeted by a
salvo of barks. But the barks were a mere announcement,
not a threat.</p>
<p>On the other hand, the Law demanded the instant
halting of all prowlers, or of anyone seeking to
get to the house from road or lake by circuitous
and stealthy means. Such roundabout methods
spell Trespass. Every good watchdog knows that.
But wholly good watchdogs are far fewer than most
people—even their owners—realize. Lad was one
of the few.</p>
<p>To-day's trespasser had struck into The Place's
grounds from an adjoining bit of woodland. He<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</SPAN></span>
had moved softly and obliquely and had made little
furtive dashes from one bit of cover to another,
as he advanced toward the outbuildings a hundred
yards north of the house.</p>
<p>He had moved cleverly and quietly. No human
had seen or heard him. Even Lad, sprawling half-asleep
on the veranda, had not seen him. For, in
spite of theory, a dog's eye by daylight is not so
keen or so far-seeing as is a human's. But the
wind had brought news of a foreign presence on
The Place—a presence which Lad's hasty glance at
driveway and lake edge did not verify.</p>
<p>So the dog had risen to his feet, stretched himself,
collie-fashion, fore and aft, and trotted quickly
away to investigate. Scent, and then sound, taught
him which way to go.</p>
<p>Two minutes later he changed his wolf trot to
a slow and unwontedly stiff-legged walk, advancing
with head lowered, and growling softly far down
in his throat. He was making straight for a patch
of sumac, ten feet in front of him and a hundred
feet behind the stables.</p>
<p>Now, when a dog bounds toward a man, barking
and with head up, there is nothing at all to be
feared from his approach. But when the pace
slackens to a stiff walk and his head sinks low, that
is a very good time, indeed, for the object of his
attentions to think seriously of escape or of defense.</p>
<p>Instinct or experience must have imparted this
useful truth to the lurker in the sumac patch, for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</SPAN></span>
as the great dog drew near the man incontinently
wheeled and broke cover. At the same instant Lad
charged.</p>
<p>The man had a ten-foot start. This vantage he
utilized by flinging himself bodily at a low-forked
hickory tree directly in his path.</p>
<p>Up the rough trunk to the crotch he shinned with
the speed of a chased cat. Lad arrived at the tree
bole barely in time to collect a mouthful of cloth
from the climber's left trouser ankle.</p>
<p>After which, since he was not of the sort to
clamor noisily for what lurked beyond his reach,
the dog yawned and lay down to keep guard on
his arboreal prisoner. For half an hour he lay
thus, varying his vigil once or twice by sniffing
thoughtfully at a ragged scrap of trouser cloth between
his little white forepaws. He sniffed the
thing as though trying to commit its scent to
memory.</p>
<p>The man did not seek help by shouting. Instead,
he seemed oddly willing that no other human
should intrude on his sorry plight. A single loud
yell would have brought aid from the stables or
from the house or even from the lodge up by the
gate. Yet, though the man must have guessed this,
he did not yell. Instead, he cursed whisperingly at
intervals and snarled at his captor.</p>
<p>At last, his nerve going, the prisoner drew out
a jackknife, opened a blade at each end of it and
hurled the ugly missile with all his force at the dog.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</SPAN></span>
As the man had shifted his position to get at the
knife, Lad had risen expectantly to his feet with
some hope that his captive might be going to
descend.</p>
<p>It was lucky for Lad that he was standing when
the knife was thrown for the aim was not bad, and
a dog lying down cannot easily dodge. A dog
standing on all fours is different, especially if he
is a collie.</p>
<p>Lad sprang to one side instinctively as the
thrower's arm went back. The knife whizzed,
harmless, into the sumac patch. Lad's teeth bared
themselves in something that looked like a smile
and was not. Then he lay down again on guard.</p>
<p>A minute later he was up with a jump. From
the direction of the house came a shrill whistle
followed by a shout of "Lad! <i>La-ad!</i>"
It was the Master calling him. The summons
could not be ignored. Usually it was obeyed with
eager gladness, but now—Lad looked worriedly
up into the tree. Then, coming to a decision, he
galloped away at top speed.</p>
<p>In ten seconds he was at the veranda where the
Master stood talking with a newly arrived guest.
Before the Master could speak to the dog, Lad
rushed up to him, whimpering in stark appeal, then
ran a few steps toward the stables, paused, looked
back and whimpered again.</p>
<p>"What's the matter with him?" loudly demanded<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</SPAN></span>
the guest—an obese and elderly man, right sportily
attired. "What ails the silly dog?"</p>
<p>"He's found something," said the Master.
"Something he wants me to come and see—and he
wants me to come in a hurry."</p>
<p>"How do you know?" asked the guest.</p>
<p>"Because I know his language as well as he knows
mine," retorted the Master.</p>
<p>He set off in the wake of the excited dog. The
guest followed in more leisurely fashion complaining:</p>
<p>"Of all the idiocy! To let a measly dog drag
you out of the shade on a red-hot day like this
just to look at some dead chipmunk he's found!"</p>
<p>"Perhaps," stiffly agreed the Master, not slackening
his pace. "But if Lad behaves like that,
unless it's pretty well worth while, he's changed a
lot in the past hour. A man can do worse sometimes
than follow a tip his dog gives him."</p>
<p>"Have it your own way," grinned the guest.
"Perhaps he may lead us to a treasure cave or to
a damsel in distress. I'm with you."</p>
<p>"Guy me if it amuses you," said the Master.</p>
<p>"It does," his guest informed him. "It amuses
me to see any grown man think so much of a dog
as you people think of Lad. It's maudlin."</p>
<p>"My house is the only one within a mile on this
side of the lake that has never been robbed," was
the Master's reply. "My stable is the only one in
the same radius that hasn't been rifled by harness-<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</SPAN></span>and-tire
thieves. Thieves who seem to do their
work in broad daylight, too, when the stables
won't be locked. I have Lad to thank for all that.
He——"</p>
<p>The dog had darted far ahead. Now he was
standing beneath a low-forked hickory tree staring
up into it.</p>
<p>"He's treed a cat!" guffawed the guest, his laugh
as irritating as a kick. "Extra! Come out and get
a nice sunstroke, folks! Come and see the cat Lad
has treed!"</p>
<p>The Master did not answer. There was no cat
in the tree. There was nothing visible in the tree.
Lad's aspect shrank from hope to depression. He
looked apologetically at the Master. Then he began
to sniff once more at a scrap of cloth on the
ground.</p>
<p>The Master picked up the cloth and presently
walked over to the tree. From a jut of bark
dangled a shred of the same cloth. The Master's
hand went to Lad's head in approving caress.</p>
<p>"It was not a cat," he said. "It was a man.
See the rags of——"</p>
<p>"Oh, piffle!" snorted the guest. "Next you'll be
reconstructing the man's middle name and favorite
perfume from the color of the bark on the tree.
You people are always telling about wonderful
stunts of Lad's. And that's all the evidence there
generally is to it."</p>
<p>"No, Mr. Glure," denied the Master, taking a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</SPAN></span>
strangle hold on his temper. "No. That's not
quite all the evidence that we have for our brag
about Lad. For instance, we had the evidence of
your own eyes when he herded that flock of
stampeded prize sheep for you last spring, and of
your own eyes again when he won the 'Gold Hat'
cup at the Labor Day Dog Show. No, there's
plenty of evidence that Lad is worth his salt. Let
it go at that. Shall we get back to the house? It's
fairly cool on the veranda. By the way, what was
it you wanted me to call Lad for? You asked to
see him. And——"</p>
<p>"Why, here's the idea," explained Glure, as they
made their way through the heat back to the shade
of the porch. "It's what I drove over here to talk
with you about. I'm making the rounds of all this
region. And, say, I didn't ask to see Lad. I asked
if you still had him. I asked because——"</p>
<p>"Oh," apologized the Master. "I thought you
wanted to see him. Most people ask to if he
doesn't happen to be round when they call.
We——"</p>
<p>"I asked you if you still had him," expounded
Mr. Glure, "because I hoped you hadn't. I hoped
you were more of a patriot."</p>
<p>"Patriot?" echoed the Master, puzzled.</p>
<p>"Yes. That's why I'm making this tour of the
country: to rouse dog owners to a sense of their
duty. I've just formed a local branch of the Food
Conservation League and——"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"It's a splendid organization," warmly approved
the Master, "but what have dog owners to——"</p>
<p>"To do with it?" supplemented Glure. "They
have nothing to do with it, more's the pity. But
they ought to. That's why I volunteered to make
this canvass. It was my own idea. Some of the
others were foolish enough to object, but as I had
founded and financed this Hampton branch of the
League——"</p>
<p>"What 'canvass' are you talking about?" asked
the Master, who was far too familiar with Glure's
ways to let the man become fairly launched on a
pæan of self-adulation. "You say it's 'to rouse
dog owners to a sense of their duty.' Along what
line? We dog men have raised a good many
thousand dollars this past year by our Red Cross
shows and by our subscriptions to all sorts of war
funds. The Blue Cross, too, and the Collie Ambulance
Fund have——"</p>
<p>"This is something better than the mere giving
of surplus coin," broke in Glure. "It is something
that involves sacrifice. A needful sacrifice for our
country. A sacrifice that may win the war."</p>
<p>"Count me in on it, then!" cordially approved
the Master. "Count in all real dog men. What
is the 'sacrifice'?"</p>
<p>"It's my own idea," modestly boasted Glure,
adding: "That is, of course, it's been agitated by
other people in letters to newspapers and all that,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</SPAN></span>
but I'm the first to go out and put it into actual
effect."</p>
<p>"Shoot!" suggested the weary Master.</p>
<p>"That's the very word!" exclaimed Glure.
"That's the very thing I want dog owners to combine
in doing. To shoot!"</p>
<p>"To—what?"</p>
<p>"To shoot—or poison—or asphyxiate," expounded
Glure, warming to his theme. "In short,
to get rid of every dog."</p>
<p>The Master's jaw swung ajar and his eyes bulged.
His face began to assume an unbecoming bricky
hue. Glure went on:</p>
<p>"You see, neighbor, our nation is up against it.
When war was declared last month it found us
unprepared. We've got to pitch in and economize.
Every mouthful of food wasted here is a new lease
of life to the Kaiser. We're cutting down on sugar
and meat and fat, but for every cent we save that
way we're throwing away a dollar in feeding our
dogs. Our dogs that are a useless, senseless, costly
luxury! They serve no utilitarian end. They eat
food that belongs to soldiers. I'm trying to
brighten the corner where I am by persuading my
neighbors to get rid of their dogs. When I've
proved what a blessing it is I'm going to inaugurate
a nation-wide campaign from California to New
York, from——"</p>
<p>"Hold on!" snapped the Master, finding some of
his voice and, in the same effort, mislaying much<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</SPAN></span>
of his temper. "What wall-eyed idiocy do you
think you're trying to talk? How many dog men
do you expect to convert to such a crazy doctrine?
Have you tried any others? Or am I the first
mark?"</p>
<p>"I'm sorry you take it this way," reproved Glure.
"I had hoped you were more broad-minded, but
you are as pig-headed as the rest."</p>
<p>"The 'rest,' hey?" the Master caught him up.
"The 'rest?' Then I'm not the first? I'm glad
they had sense enough to send you packing."</p>
<p>"They were blind animal worshipers, both of
them," said Glure aggrievedly, "just as you are.
One of them yelled something after me that I sincerely
hope I didn't hear aright. If I did, I have
a strong action for slander against him. The other
chucklehead so far forgot himself as to threaten
to take a shotgun to me if I didn't get off his land."</p>
<p>"I'm sorry!" sighed the Master. "For both of
them seem to have covered the ground so completely
that there isn't anything unique for me to
say—or do. Now listen to me for two minutes.
I've read a few of those anti-dog letters in the
newspapers, but you're the first person I've met in
real life who backs such rot. And I'm going——"</p>
<p>"It is not a matter for argument," loftily began
Glure.</p>
<p>"Yes it is," asserted the Master. "Everything
is, except religion and love and toothache. You
say dogs ought to be destroyed as a patriotic duty<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</SPAN></span>
because they aren't utilitarian. There's where
you're wrong at the very beginning. Dead wrong.
I'm not talking about the big kennels where one
man keeps a hundred dogs as he'd herd so many
prize hogs. Though look what the owners of such
kennels did for the country at the last New York
show at Madison Square Garden! Every penny
of the thousands and thousands of dollars in profits
from the show went to the Red Cross. I'm speaking
of the man who keeps one dog or two or even
three dogs, and keeps them as pets. I'm speaking
of myself, if you like. Do you know what it costs
me per week to feed my dogs?"</p>
<p>"I'm not looking for statistics in——"</p>
<p>"No, I suppose not. Few fanatics are. Well, I
figured it out a few weeks ago, after I read one
of those anti-dog letters. The total upkeep of all
my dogs averages just under a dollar a week. A
bare fifty dollars a year. That's true. And——"</p>
<p>"And that fifty dollars," interposed Glure
eagerly, "would pay for a soldier's——"</p>
<p>"It would not!" contradicted the Master, trying
to keep some slight grip on his sliding temper.
"But I can tell you what it <i>would</i> do: Part of it
would go for burglar insurance, which I don't need
now, because no stranger dares to sneak up to my
house at night. Part of it would go to make up
for things stolen around The Place. For instance,
in the harness room of my stable there are five sets
of good harness and two or three extra automobile<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</SPAN></span>
tires. Unless I'm very much mistaken, the best
of those would be gone now if Lad hadn't just
treed the man who was after them."</p>
<p>"Pshaw!" exploded Glure in fine scorn. "We
saw no man there. There was no proof of——"</p>
<p>"There was proof enough for me," continued
the Master. "And if Lad hadn't scented the
fellow one of the other dogs would. As I told
you, mine is the only house—and mine is the only
stable—on this side of the lake that has never
been looted. Mine is the only orchard—and mine
is the only garden—that is never robbed. And
this is the only place, on our side of the lake, where
dogs are kept at large for twelve months of the
year. My dogs' entry fees at Red Cross shows
have more than paid for their keep, and those fees
went straight to charity."</p>
<p>"But——"</p>
<p>"The women of my family are as safe here, day
and night, as if I had a machine-gun company
on guard. That assurance counts for more than
a little, in peace of mind, back here in the North
Jersey hinterland. I'm not taking into account
the several other ways the dogs bring in cash income
to us. Not even the cash Lad turned over
to the Red Cross when we sent that $1600 'Gold
Hat' cup he won, to be melted down. And I'm
not speaking of our dogs' comradeship, and what
that means to us. Our dogs are an asset in every
way—not a liability. They aren't deadheads either.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</SPAN></span>
For I pay the state tax on them every year.
They're true, loyal, companionable chums, and
they're an ornament to The Place as well as its
best safeguard. All in return for table scraps and
skim milk and less than a weekly dollar's worth
of stale bread and cast-off butcher-shop bones.
Where do you figure out the 'saving' for the war
chest if I got rid of them?"</p>
<p>"As I said," repeated Glure with cold austerity,
"it's not a matter for argument. I came here hoping
to——"</p>
<p>"I'm not given to mawkish sentiment," went on
the Master shamefacedly, "but on the day your
fool law for dog exterminating goes into effect
there'll be a piteous crying of little children all
over the whole world—of little children mourning
for the gentle protecting playmates they loved.
And there'll be a million men and women whose
lives have all at once become lonely and empty and
miserable. Isn't this war causing enough crying
and loneliness and misery without your adding to
it by killing our dogs? For the matter of that,
haven't the army dogs over in Europe been doing
enough for mankind to warrant a square deal for
their stay-at-home brothers? Haven't they?"</p>
<p>"That's a mass of sentimental bosh," declared
Glure. "All of it."</p>
<p>"It is," willingly confessed the Master. "So are
most of the worth-while things in life, if you reduce
them to their lowest terms."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"You know what a fine group of dogs I had,"
said Glure, starting off on a new tack. "I had a
group that cost me, dog for dog, more than any
other kennel in the state. Grand dogs too. You
remember my wonderful Merle, for instance,
and——"</p>
<p>"And your rare 'Prussian sheep dog'—or was it
a prune-hound?—that a Chicago man sold to you
for $1100," supplemented the Master, swallowing
a grin. "I remember. I remember them all.
What then?"</p>
<p>"Well," resumed Glure, "no one can accuse me
of not practicing what I preach. I began this
splendid campaign by getting rid of every dog I
owned. So I——"</p>
<p>"Yes," agreed the Master. "I read all about
that last month in your local paper. Distemper had
run through your kennel, and you tried doctoring
the dogs on a theory of your own instead of sending
for a vet. So they all died. Tough luck! Or
perhaps you got rid of them that way on purpose?
For the good of the Cause? I'm sorry about the
Merle. He was——"</p>
<p>"I see there's no use talking to you," sighed
Glure in disgust, ponderously rising and waddling
toward his car. "I'm disappointed; because I hoped
you were less bone-brained and more patriotic than
these yokels round here."</p>
<p>"I'm not," cheerily conceded the Master. "I'm
not, I'm glad to say. Not a bit."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>"Then," pursued Glure, climbing into the car,
"since you feel that way about it, I suppose there's
no use asking you to come to the little cattle show
I'm organizing for week after next, because that's
for the Food Conservation League too. And since
you're so out of sympathy with——"</p>
<p>"I'm not out of sympathy with the League," asserted
the Master. "Its card is in our kitchen
window. We've signed its pledge and we're boosting
it in every way we know how, except by killing
our dogs; and that's no part of the League's programme,
as you know very well. Tell me more
about the cattle show."</p>
<p>"It's a neighborhood affair," said Glure sulkily,
yet eager to secure any possible entrants. "Just
a bunch of home-raised cattle. Cup and rosette
for best of each recognized breed, and the usual
ribbons for second and third. Three dollars an
entry. Only one class for each breed. Every entrant
must have been raised by the exhibitor.
Gate admission fifty cents. Red Cross to get the
gross proceeds. I've offered the use of my south
meadow at Glure Towers—just as I did for the
specialty dog show. I've put up a hundred dollars
toward the running expenses too. Micklesen's to
judge."</p>
<p>"I don't go in for stock raising," said the Master.
"My little Alderney heifer is the only head of
quality stock I ever bred. I doubt if she is worth
taking up there, but I'll be glad to take her if only<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</SPAN></span>
to swell the competition list. Send me a blank,
please."</p>
<p>Lad trotted dejectedly back to the house as
Glure's car chugged away up the drive. Lad was
glumly unhappy. He had had no trouble at all in
catching the scent of the man he had treed. He
had followed the crashingly made trail through
undergrowth and woodland until it had emerged
into the highroad.</p>
<p>And there, perforce, Lad had paused. For,
taught from puppyhood, he knew the boundaries
of The Place as well as did the Mistress or the
Master, and he knew equally well that his own
jurisdiction ended at those boundaries. Beyond
them he might not chase even the most loathed intruder.
The highroad was sanctuary.</p>
<p>Wherefore at the road edge he stopped and
turned slowly back. His pursuit was ended, but
not his anger, nor his memory of the marauder's
scent. The man had trespassed slyly on The Place.
He had gotten away unpunished. These things
rankled in the big dog's mind....</p>
<p>It was a pretty little cattle show and staged in
a pretty setting withal—at Glure Towers, two
weeks later. The big sunken meadow on the verge
of the Ramapo River was lined on two sides with
impromptu sheds. The third side was blocked by
something between a grand stand and a marquee.
The tree-hung river bordered the fourth side. In the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</SPAN></span>
field's center was the roped-off judging inclosure
into which the cattle, class by class, were to be led.</p>
<p>Above the pastoral scene brooded the architectural
crime, known as The Towers—homestead
and stronghold of Hamilcar Q. Glure, Esquire.</p>
<p>Glure had made much money in Wall Street—a
crooked little street that begins with a graveyard
and ends in a river. Having waxed indecently
rich, he had erected for himself a hideously
expensive estate among the Ramapo Mountains
and had settled down to the task of patronizing
his rural neighbors. There he elected to be known
as the "Wall Street Farmer," a title that delighted
not only himself but everyone else in the region.</p>
<p>There was, in this hinterland stretch, a friendly
and constant rivalry among the natives and other
old residents in the matter of stock raising. Horses,
cattle, pigs, chickens, even a very few sheep were
bred for generations along lines which their divers
owners had laid out—lines which those owners
fervently believed must some day produce perfection.</p>
<p>Each owner or group of owners had his own
special ideas as to the best way to produce this
super-stock result. The local stock shows formed
the only means of proving or disproving the excellence
of the varied theories. Hence these shows
were looked upon as barnyard supreme courts.</p>
<p>Mr. Glure had begun his career in the neighborhood
with a laudable aim of excelling everybody<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</SPAN></span>
else in everything. He had gone, heart and soul,
into stock producing and as he had no breeding
theories of his own he proceeded to acquire a set.
As it would necessarily take years to work out
these beliefs, he bridged the gap neatly by purchasing
and importing prize livestock and by entering
it against the home-raised products of his
neighbors.</p>
<p>Strangely enough, this did not add to the popularity
which he did not possess. Still more
strangely, it did not add materially to his prestige
as an exhibitor, for the judges had an exasperating
way of handing him a second or third prize
ribbon and then of awarding the coveted blue
rosette to the owner and breeder of some local
exhibit.</p>
<p>After a long time it began to dawn upon Glure
that narrow neighborhood prejudice deemed it unsportsmanlike
to buy prize stock and exhibit it as
one's own. At approximately the same time three
calves were born to newly imported prize cows in
the two-acre model barns of Glure Towers, and
with them was born Glure's newest idea.</p>
<p>No one could deny he had bred these calves himself.
They were born on his own place and of
his own high-pedigreed cattle. Three breeds were
represented among the trio of specimens. By
points and by lineage they were well-nigh peerless.
Wherefore the plan for a show of neighborhood<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</SPAN></span>
"home-raised" cattle. At length Glure felt he was
coming into his own.</p>
<p>The hinterland folk had fought shy of Glure
since the dog show wherein he had sought to win
the capital prize by formulating a set of conditions
that could be filled by no entrant except a newly
imported champion Merle of his own.</p>
<p>But the phrase "home-raised" now proved a bait
that few of the region's stock lovers could resist;
and on the morning of the show no fewer than
fifty-two cattle of standard breeds were shuffling
or lowing in the big impromptu sheds.</p>
<p>A farm hand, the day before, had led to the
show ground The Place's sole entrant—the pretty
little Alderney heifer of which the Master had
spoken to Glure and which, by the way, was destined
to win nothing higher than a third-prize
ribbon.</p>
<p>For that matter, to end the suspense, the best
of the three Glure calves won only a second prize,
all the first for their three breeds going to two
nonplutocratic North Jerseymen who had bred the
ancestors of their entrants for six generations.</p>
<p>The Mistress and the Master motored over to
Glure Towers on the morning of the show in their
one car. Lad went with them. He always went
with them.</p>
<p>Not that any dog could hope to find interest in
a cattle show, but a dog would rather go anywhere
with his Master than to stay at home without him.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</SPAN></span>
Witness the glad alacrity wherewith the weariest
dog deserts a snug fireside in the vilest weather for
the joy of a master-accompanying walk.</p>
<p>A tire puncture delayed the trip. The show was
about to begin when the car was at last parked
behind the sunken meadow. The Mistress and the
Master, with Lad at their heels, started across the
meadow afoot toward the well-filled grand-stand.</p>
<p>Several acquaintances in the stand waved to them
as they advanced. Also, before they had traversed
more than half the meadow's area their host bore
down upon them.</p>
<p>Mr. Glure (dressed, as usual, for the Occasion)
looked like a blend of Landseer's "<i>Edinburgh
Drover</i>" and a theater-program picture of "<i>What
the Man Will Wear</i>."</p>
<p>He had been walking beside a garishly liveried
groom who was leading an enormous Holstein
bull toward the judging enclosure. The bull was
steered by a five-foot bar, the end snapped to a
ring in his nose.</p>
<p>"Hello, good people!" Mr. Glure boomed, pump-handling
the unenthusiastic Mistress' right hand
and bestowing a jarringly annoying slap upon the
Master's shoulder. "Glad to see you! You're late.
Almost too late for the best part of the show.
Before judging begins, I'm having some of my
choicest European stock paraded in the ring. Just
for exhibition, you know. Not for a contest. I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</SPAN></span>
like to give a treat to some of these farmers who
think they know how to breed cattle."</p>
<p>"Yes?" queried the Master, who could think of
nothing cleverer to say.</p>
<p>"Take that bull, Tenebris, of mine, for instance,"
proclaimed Glure, with a wave toward the approaching
Holstein and his guide. "Best ton of
livestock that ever stood on four legs. Look how
he——"</p>
<p>Glure paused in his lecture for he saw that both
the Mistress and the Master were staring, not at
the bull, but at the beast's leader. The spectacle
of a groom in gaudy livery, on duty at a cattle
show, was all but too much for their gravity.</p>
<p>"You're looking at that boy of mine, hey?
Fine, well-set-up chap, isn't he? A faithful boy.
Devoted to me. Slavishly devoted. Not like most
of these grumpy, independent Jersey rustics. Not
much. He's a treasure, Winston is. Used to be
chief handler for some of the biggest cattle breeders
in the East he tells me. I got hold of him by
chance, and just by the sheerest good luck, a week
or so ago. Met him on the road and he asked for
a lift. He——"</p>
<p>It was then that Lad disgraced himself and his
deities, and proved himself all unworthy to appear
in so refined an assembly. The man in livery had
convoyed the bull to within a few feet of the
proudly exhorting Glure. Now, without growl or<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</SPAN></span>
other sign of warning, the hitherto peaceable dog
changed into a murder machine.</p>
<p>In a single mighty bound he cleared the narrowing
distance between himself and the advancing
groom.</p>
<p>The leap sent him hurtling through the air, an
eighty-pound furry catapult, straight for the man's
throat.</p>
<p>Over and beyond the myriad cattle odors, Lad
had suddenly recognized a scent that spelt deathless
hatred. The scent had been verified by a single
glance at the brilliantly clad man in livery. Wherefore
the mad charge.</p>
<p>The slashing jaws missed their mark in the man's
throat by a bare half inch. That they missed it
at all was because the man also recognized Lad,
and shrank back in mortal terror.</p>
<p>Even before the eighty-pound weight, smashing
against his chest, sent the groom sprawling backward
to the ground, Lad's slashing jaws had found
a hold in place of the one they had missed.</p>
<p>This grip was on the liveried shoulder, into which
the fangs sank to their depth. Down went the man,
screaming, the dog atop of him.</p>
<p>"Lad!" cried the Mistress, aghast. "<i>Lad!</i>"
Through the avenging rage that misted his brain
the great dog heard. With a choking sound that
was almost a sob he relinquished his hold and turned
slowly from his prey.</p>
<p>The Master and Glure instinctively took a step<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</SPAN></span>
toward the approaching dog and the writhingly
prostrate man. Then, still more instinctively, and
without even coming to a standstill before going
into reverse, they both sprang back. They would
have sprung further had not the roped walls of the
show ring checked them.</p>
<p>For Tenebris had taken a sudden and active part
in the scene.</p>
<p>The gigantic Holstein during his career in
Europe had trebly won his title to champion. And
during the three years before his exportation to
America he had gored to death no fewer than three
over-confident stable attendants. The bull's homicidal
temper, no less than the dazzling price offered
by Glure, had caused his owner to sell him to the
transatlantic bidder.</p>
<p>A bull's nose is the tenderest spot of his anatomy.
Next to his eyes, he guards its safety most zealously.
Thus, with a stout leading-bar between him and his
conductor, Tenebris was harmless enough.</p>
<p>But the conductor just now had let go of that
bar, as Lad's weight had smitten him. Freed, Tenebris
had stood for an instant in perplexity.</p>
<p>Fiercely he flung his gnarled head to one side
to see the cause of the commotion. The gesture
swung the heavy leading-bar, digging the nose ring
cruelly into his sensitive nostrils. The pain maddened
Tenebris. A final plunging twist of the head—and
the bar's weight tore the nose ring free from
the nostrils.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Tenebris bellowed thunderously at the climax of
pain. Then he realized he had shaken off the only
thing that gave humans a control over him. A second
bellow—a furious pawing of the earth—and
the bull lowered his head. His evil eyes glared
about him in search of something to kill.</p>
<p>It was the sight of this motion which sent the
Master and Glure recoiling against the show-ring
ropes.</p>
<p>In almost the same move the Master caught up
his wife and swung her over the top rope, into the
ring. He followed her into that refuge's fragile
safety with a speed that held no dignity whatever.
Glure, seeing the action, wasted no time in wriggling
through the ropes after him.</p>
<p>Tenebris did not follow them.</p>
<p>One thing and only one his red eyes saw: On the
ground, not six feet away, rolled and moaned a
man. The man was down. He was helpless. Tenebris
charged.</p>
<p>A bull plunging at a near-by object shuts both
eyes. A cow does not. Which may—or may not—explain
the Spanish theory that bullfights are
safer than cow-fights. To this eye-closing trait
many a hard-pressed matador has owed his life.</p>
<p>Tenebris, both eyes screwed shut, hurled his
2000-pound bulk at the prostrate groom. Head
down, nose in, short horns on a level with the
earth and barely clearing it, he made his rush.</p>
<p>But at the very first step he became aware that<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</SPAN></span>
something was amiss with his pleasantly anticipated
charge. It did not follow specifications or
precedent.</p>
<p>All because a heavy something had flung its
weight against the side of his lowered head, and a
new and unbearable pain was torturing his blood-filled
nostrils.</p>
<p>Tenebris swerved. He veered to one side,
throwing up his head to clear it of this unseen torment.</p>
<p>As a result, the half-lifted horns grazed the
fallen man. The pointed hoofs missed him altogether.
At the same moment the weight was gone
from against the bull's head, and the throbbing stab
from his nostrils.</p>
<p>Pausing uncertainly, Tenebris opened his eyes
and glared about him. A yard or two away a
shaggy dog was rising from the tumble caused by
the jerky uptossing of the bull's head.</p>
<p>Now, were this a fiction yarn, it would be interesting
to devise reasons why Lad should have flown
to the rescue of a human whom he loathed, and
arrayed himself against a fellow-beast toward
which he felt no hatred at all.</p>
<p>To dogs all men are gods. And perhaps Lad
felt the urge of saving even a detested god from
the onslaught of a beast. Or perhaps not. One can
go only by the facts. And the facts were that the
collie had checked himself in the reluctant journey<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</SPAN></span>
toward the Mistress and had gone to his foe's
defense.</p>
<p>With a flash of speed astonishing in so large and
sedate a dog, he had flown at the bull in time—in
the barest time—to grip the torn nostrils and
turn the whirlwind charge.</p>
<p>And now Tenebris shifted his baleful glare from
the advancing dog to the howling man. The dog
could wait. The bull's immediate pleasure and purpose
were to kill the man.</p>
<p>He lowered his head again. But before he could
launch his enormous bulk into full motion—before
he could shut his eyes—the dog was between him
and his quarry.</p>
<p>In one spring Lad was at the bull's nose. And
again his white eye teeth slashed the ragged nostrils.
Tenebris halted his own incipient rush and strove
to pin the collie to the ground. It would have been
as easy to pin a whizzing hornet.</p>
<p>Tenebris thrust at the clinging dog, once more
seeking to smash Lad against the sod with his battering-ram
forehead and his short horns. But Lad
was not there. Instead, he was to the left, his
body clean out of danger, his teeth in the bull's left
ear.</p>
<p>A lunge of the tortured head sent Lad rolling
over and over. But by the time he stopped rolling
he was on his feet again. Not only on his feet,
but back to the assault. Back, before his unwieldy
foe could gauge the distance for another rush at the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</SPAN></span>
man. And a keen nip in the bleeding nostrils balked
still one more charge.</p>
<p>The bull, snorting with rage, suddenly changed
his plan of campaign. Apparently his first ideas
had been wrong. It was the man who could wait,
and the dog that must be gotten out of the way.</p>
<p>Tenebris wheeled and made an express-train rush
at Lad. The collie turned and fled. He did not flee
with tail down, as befits a beaten dog. Brush wavingly
aloft, he gamboled along at top speed, just
a stride or two ahead of the pursuing bull. He
even looked back encouragingly over his shoulder
as he went.</p>
<p>Lad was having a beautiful time. Seldom had
he been so riotously happy. All the pent-up mischief
in his soul was having a glorious airing.</p>
<p>The bull's blind charge was short, as a bull's
charge always is. When Tenebris opened his eyes
he saw the dog, not ten feet in front of him, scampering
for dear life toward the river. And again
Tenebris charged.</p>
<p>Three such charges, one after another, brought
pursuer and pursued to within a hundred feet of
the water.</p>
<p>Tenebris was not used to running. He was getting
winded. He came to a wavering standstill,
snorting loudly and pawing up great lumps of sod.</p>
<p>But he had not stood thus longer than a second
before Lad was at him. Burnished shaggy coat
a-bristle, tail delightedly wagging, the dog bounded<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</SPAN></span>
forward. He set up an ear-splitting fanfare of
barking.</p>
<p>Round and round the bull he whirled, never letting
up on that deafening volley of barks; nipping
now at ears, now at nose, now at heels; dodging
in and out under the giant's clumsy body; easily
avoiding the bewilderingly awkward kicks and
lunges of his enemy. Then, forefeet crouching and
muzzle close to the ground, like a playful puppy,
he waved his plumed tail violently and, in a new
succession of barks, wooed his adversary to the
attack.</p>
<p>It was a pretty sight. And it set Tenebris into
active motion at once.</p>
<p>The bull doubtless thought he himself was doing
the driving, by means of his panting rushes, and
by his lurches to one side or another to keep away
from the dog's sharp bites. But he was not. It
was Lad who chose the direction in which they
went. And he chose it deliberately.</p>
<p>Presently the two were but fifteen feet away
from the river, at a point where the bank shelved,
cliff-like, for two or three yards, down to a wide
pool.</p>
<p>Feinting for the nose, Lad induced Tenebris to
lower his tired head. Then he sprang lightly over
the threatening horns, and landed, a-scramble, with
all four feet, on the bull's broad shoulders.</p>
<p>Scurrying along the heaving back, the dog nipped
Tenebris on the hip, and dropped to earth again.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>The insult, the fresh pain, the astonishment combined
to make Tenebris forget his weariness. Beside
himself with maniac wrath, he shut both eyes and
launched himself forward. Lad slipped, eel-like,
to one side. Carried by his own blind momentum,
Tenebris shot over the bank edge.</p>
<p>Too late the bull looked. Half sliding, half
scrambling, he crashed down the steep sides of the
bank and into the river.</p>
<p>Lad, tongue out, jogged over to the top of the
bank, where, with head to one side and ears cocked,
he gazed interestedly down into the wildly churned
pool.</p>
<p>Tenebris had gotten to his feet after the ducking;
and he was floundering pastern-deep in stickily soft
mud. So tightly bogged down that it later took
the efforts of six farm-hands to extricate him, the
bull continued to flounder and to bellow.</p>
<p>A stream of people were running down the
meadow toward the river. Lad hated crowds. He
made a loping detour of the nearest runners and
sought to regain the spot where last he had seen
the Mistress and Master. Also, if his luck held
good, he might have still another bout with the man
he had once treed. Which would be an ideal climax
to a perfect day.</p>
<p>He found all the objects of his quest together.
The groom, hysterical, was swaying on his feet, supported
by Glure.</p>
<p>At sight of the advancing collie the bitten man<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</SPAN></span>
cried aloud in fear and clutched his employer for
protection.</p>
<p>"Take him away, sir!" he babbled in mortal
terror. "He'll kill me! He hates me, the ugly
hairy devil! He <i>hates</i> me. He tried to kill me
once before! He——"</p>
<p>"H'm!" mused the Master. "So he tried to kill
you once before, eh? Aren't you mistaken?"</p>
<p>"No, I ain't!" wept the man. "I'd know him in
a million! That's why he went for me again to-day.
He remembered me. I seen he did. That's no dog.
It's a <i>devil!</i>"</p>
<p>"Mr. Glure," asked the Master, a light dawning,
"when this chap applied to you for work, did he
wear grayish tweed trousers? And were they in
bad shape?"</p>
<p>"His trousers were in rags," said Glure. "I remember
that. He said a savage dog had jumped
into the road from a farmhouse somewhere and
gone for him. Why?"</p>
<p>"Those trousers," answered the Master, "weren't
entire strangers to you. You'd seen the missing
parts of them—on a tree and on the ground near it,
at The Place. Your 'treasure' is the harness thief
Lad treed the day you came to see me. So——"</p>
<p>"Nonsense!" fumed Glure. "Why, how absurd!
He——"</p>
<p>"I hadn't stolen nothing!" blubbered the man. "I
was coming cross-lots to a stable to ask for work.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</SPAN></span>
And the brute went for me. I had to run up a
tree and——"</p>
<p>"And it didn't occur to you to shout for help?"
sweetly urged the Master. "I was within call. So
was Mr. Glure. So was at least one of my men.
An honest seeker for work needn't have been afraid
to halloo. A thief would have been afraid to. In
fact, a thief <i>was!</i>"</p>
<p>"Get out of here, you!" roared Glure, convinced
at last. "You measly sneak thief! Get out or I'll
have you jailed! You're an imposter! A pan-handler!
A——"</p>
<p>The thief waited to hear no more. With an apprehensive
glance to see that Lad was firmly held,
he bolted for the road.</p>
<p>"Thanks for telling me," said Glure. "He might
have stolen everything at Glure Towers if I hadn't
found out. He——"</p>
<p>"Yes. He might even have stolen more than
the cost of our non-utilitarian Lad's keep," unkindly
suggested the Master. "For that matter, if it hadn't
been for a non-utilitarian dog, that mad bull's horns,
instead of his nostrils, would be red by this time.
At least one man would have been killed. Perhaps
more. So, after all——"</p>
<p>He stopped. The Mistress was tugging surreptitiously
at his sleeve. The Master, in obedience to
his wife's signal, stepped aside, to light a cigar.</p>
<p>"I wouldn't say any more, dear, if I were you,"
the Mistress was whispering. "You see, if it hadn't<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</SPAN></span>
been for Lad, the bull would never have broken
loose in the first place. By another half-hour that
fact may dawn on Mr. Glure, if you keep rubbing
it in. Let's go over to the grand stand. Come,
Lad!"</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />