{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2392/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2392","id":"gutenberg_2392","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2392","summary":null,"tags":["Animals-Domestic","Category: Adventure","Category: American Literature","Category: Short Stories","Dogs -- Folklore","Dogs -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Produced by Dianne Bean.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFURTHER ADVENTURES OF LAD\n\n\nby\n\nALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\nSunnybank Lad won a million friends through my book, \"LAD: A DOG\"; and\nthrough the Lad-anecdotes in \"Buff: A Collie.\" These books themselves\nwere in no sense great. But Laddie was great in every sense; and his\nlife-story could not be marred, past interest, by my clumsy way of\ntelling it.\n\nPeople have written in gratifying numbers asking for more stories about\nLad. More than seventeen hundred visitors have come all the way to\nSunnybank to see his grave. So I wrote the collection of tales which\nare now included in \"Further Adventures of Lad.\" Most of them appeared,\nin condensed form, in the Ladies' Home Journal.\n\nVery much, I hope you may like them.\n\nALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE \"Sunnybank\" Pompton Lakes, New Jersey\n\n\n\nFURTHER ADVENTURES OF LAD\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n    I. The Coming Of Lad\n   II. The Fetish\n  III. No Trespassing!\n   IV. Hero-Stuff\n    V. The Stowaway\n   VI. The Tracker\n  VII. The Juggernaut\n VIII. In Strange Company\n   IX. Old  Dog; New Tricks\n    X. The Intruders\n   XI. The Guard\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. The Coming Of Lad\n\nIn the mile-away village of Hampton, there had been a veritable\nepidemic of burglaries--ranging from the theft of a brand-new ash-can\nfrom the steps of the Methodist chapel to the ravaging of Mrs.\nBlauvelt's whole lineful of clothes, on a washday dusk.\n\nUp the Valley and down it, from Tuxedo to Ridgewood, there had been a\nhalf-score robberies of a very different order--depredations wrought,\nmanifestly, by professionals; thieves whose motor cars served the\ntwentieth century purpose of such historic steeds as Dick Turpin's\nBlack Bess and Jack Shepard's Ranter. These thefts were in the line of\njewelry and the like; and were as daringly wrought as were the modest\nlocal operators' raids on ash-can and laundry.\n\nIt is the easiest thing in the world to stir humankind's ever-tense\nburglar-nerves into hysterical jangling. In house after house, for\nmiles of the peaceful North Jersey region, old pistols were cleaned and\nloaded; window fastenings and doorlocks were inspected and new\nhiding-places found for portable family treasures.\n\nAcross the lake from the village, and down the Valley from a dozen\ncountry homes, seeped the tide of precautions. And it swirled at last\naround the Place,--a thirty-acre homestead, isolated and sweet, whose\ngrounds ran from highway to lake; and whose wistaria-clad gray house\ndrowsed among big oaks midway between road and water; a furlong or more\ndistant from either.\n\nThe Place's family dog,--a pointer,--had died, rich in years and honor.\nAnd the new peril of burglary made it highly needful to choose a\nsuccessor for him.\n\nThe Master talked of buying a whalebone-and-steel-and-snow bull\nterrier, or a more formidable if more greedy Great Dane. But the\nMistress wanted a collie. So they compromised by getting the collie.\n\nHe reached the Place in a crampy and smelly crate; preceded by a long\nenvelope containing an intricate and imposing pedigree. The\nburglary-preventing problem seemed solved.\n\nBut when the crate was opened and its occupant stepped gravely forth,\non the Place's veranda, the problem was revived.\n\nAll the Master and the Mistress had known about the newcomer,--apart\nfrom his price and lofty lineage,--was that his breeder had named him\n\"Lad.\"\n\nFrom these meager facts they had somehow built up a picture of a huge\nand grimly ferocious animal that should be a terror to all intruders\nand that might in time be induced to make friends with the Place's\nvouched-for occupants. In view of this, they had had a stout kennel\nmade and to it they had affixed with double staples a chain strong\nenough to restrain a bull.\n\n(It may as well be said here that never in all the sixteen years of his\nbeautiful life did Lad occupy that or any other kennel nor wear that or\nany other chain.)\n\nEven the crate which brought the new dog to the Place failed somehow to\ndestroy the illusion of size and fierceness. But, the moment the crate\ndoor was opened the delusion was wrecked by Lad himself.\n\nOut on to the porch he walked. The ramshackle crate behind him had a\nridiculous air of a chrysalis from which some bright thing had\ndeparted. For a shaft of sunlight was shimmering athwart the veranda\nfloor. And into the middle of the warm bar of radiance Laddie\nstepped,--and stood.\n\nHis fluffy puppy-coat of wavy mahogany-and-white caught a million\nsunbeams, reflecting them back in tawny-orange glints and in a dazzle\nas of snow. His forepaws were absurdly small, even for a puppy's. Above\nthem the ridging of the stocky leg-bones gave as clear promise of\nmighty size and strength as did the amazingly deep little chest and\nsquare shoulders.\n\nHere one day would stand a giant among dogs, powerful as a timber-wolf,\nlithe as a cat, as dangerous to foes as an angry tiger; a dog without\nfear or treachery; a dog of uncanny brain and great lovingly loyal\nheart and, withal, a dancing sense of fun. A dog with a soul.\n\nAll this, any canine physiologist might have read from the compact\nframe, the proud head-carriage, the smolder in the deep-set sorrowful\ndark eyes. To the casual observer, he was but a beautiful and appealing\nand wonderfully cuddleable bunch of puppyhood.\n\nLad's dark eyes swept the porch, the soft swelling green of the lawn,\nthe flash of fire-blue lake among the trees below. Then, he deigned to\nlook at the group of humans at one side of him. Gravely, impersonally,\nhe surveyed them; not at all cowed or strange in his new surroundings;\ncourteously inquisitive as to the twist of luck that had set him down\nhere and as to the people who, presumably, were to be his future\ncompanions.\n\nPerhaps the stout little heart quivered just a bit, if memory went back\nto his home kennel and to the rowdy throng of brothers and sisters and\nmost of all, to the soft furry mother against whose side he had nestled\nevery night since he was born. But if so, Lad was too valiant to show\nhomesickness by so much as a whimper. And, assuredly, this House of\nPeace was infinitely better than the miserable crate wherein he had\nspent twenty horrible and jouncing and smelly and noisy hours.\n\nFrom one to another of the group strayed the level sorrowful gaze.\nAfter the swift inspection, Laddie's eyes rested again on the Mistress.\nFor an instant, he stood, looking at her, in that mildly polite\ncuriosity which held no hint of personal interest.\n\nThen, all at once, his plumy tail began to wave. Into his sad eyes\nsprang a flicker of warm friendliness. Unbidden--oblivious of everyone\nelse he trotted across to where the Mistress sat. He put one tiny white\npaw in her lap; and stood thus, looking up lovingly into her face, tail\nawag, eyes shining.\n\n\"There's no question whose dog he's going to be,\" laughed the Master.\n\"He's elected you,--by acclamation.\"\n\nThe Mistress caught up into her arms the halfgrown youngster, petting\nhis silken head, running her white fingers through his shining mahogany\ncoat; making crooning little friendly noises to him.\n\nLad forgot he was a dignified and stately pocket-edition of a collie.\nUnder this spell, he changed in a second to an excessively loving and\nnestling and adoring puppy.\n\n\"Just the same,\" interposed the Master, \"we've been stung. I wanted a\ndog to guard the Place and to be a menace to burglars and all that sort\nof thing. And they've sent us a Teddy-Bear. I think I'll ship him back\nand get a grown one. What sort of use is--?\"\n\n\"He is going to be all those things,\" eagerly prophesied the Mistress.\n\"And a hundred more. See how he loves to have me pet him! And,\nlook--he's learned, already, to shake hands; and--\"\n\n\"Fine!\" applauded the Master. \"So when it comes our turn to be visited\nby this motor-Raffles, the puppy will shake hands with him, and\nregister love of petting; and the burly marauder will be so touched by\nLad's friendliness that he'll not only spare our house but lead an\nupright life ever after. I--\"\n\n\"Don't send him back!\" she pleaded. \"He'll grow up, soon, and--\"\n\n\"And if only the courteous burglars will wait till he's a couple of\nyears old,\" suggested the Master, \"he--\"\n\nSet gently on the floor by the Mistress, Laddie had crossed to where\nthe Master stood. The man, glancing down, met the puppy's gaze. For an\ninstant he scowled at the miniature watchdog, so ludicrously different\nfrom the ferocious brute he had expected. Then,--for some queer\nreason,--he stooped and ran his hand roughly over the tawny coat,\nletting it rest at last on the shapely head that did not flinch or\nwriggle at his touch.\n\n\"All right,\" he decreed. \"Let him stay. He'll be an amusing pet for\nyou, anyhow. And his eye has the true thoroughbred expression,--'the\nlook of eagles.' He may amount to something after all. Let him stay.\nWe'll take a chance on burglars.\"\n\nSo it was that Lad came to the Place. So it was that he demanded and\nreceived due welcome which was ever Lad's way. The Master had been\nright about the pup's proving \"an amusing pet,\" for the Mistress. From\nthat first hour, Lad was never willingly out of her sight. He had\nadopted her. The Master, too,--in only a little lesser\nwholeheartedness,--he adopted. Toward the rest of the world, from the\nfirst, he was friendly but more or less indifferent.\n\nAlmost at once, his owners noted an odd trait in the dog's nature. He\nwould of course get into any or all of the thousand mischief-scrapes\nwhich are the heritage of puppies. But, a single reproof was enough to\ncure him forever of the particular form of mischief which had just been\nchidden. He was one of those rare dogs that learn the Law by instinct;\nand that remember for all time a command or a prohibition once given\nthem.\n\nFor example:--On his second day at the Place, he made a furious rush at\na neurotic mother hen and her golden convoy of chicks. The\nMistress,--luckily for all concerned,--was within call. At her sharp\nsummons the puppy wheeled, midway in his charge, and trotted back to\nher. Severely, yet trying not to laugh at his worried aspect, she\nscolded Lad for his misdeed.\n\nAn hour later, as Lad was scampering ahead of her, past the stables,\nthey rounded a corner and came flush upon the same nerve-wrecked hen\nand her brood. Lad halted in his scamper, with a suddenness that made\nhim skid. Then, walking as though on eggs, he made an idiotically wide\ncircle about the feathered dam and her silly chicks. Never thereafter\ndid he assail any of the Place's fowls.\n\nIt was the same, when he sprang up merrily at a line of laundry,\nflapping in alluring invitation from the drying ground lines. A single\nword of rebuke,--and thenceforth the family wash was safe from him.\n\nAnd so on with the myriad perplexing \"Don'ts\" which spatter the career\nof a fun-loving collie pup. Versed in the patience-fraying ways of pups\nin general, the Mistress and the Master marveled and bragged and\npraised.\n\nAll day and every day, life was a delight to the little dog. He had\nfriends everywhere, willing to romp with him. He had squirrels to\nchase, among the oaks. He had the lake to splash ecstatically in: He\nhad all he wanted to eat; and he had all the petting his hungry little\nheart could crave.\n\nHe was even allowed, with certain restrictions, to come into the\nmysterious house itself. Nor, after one defiant bark at a leopard-skin\nrug, did he molest anything therein. In the house, too, he found a\ngenuine cave:--a wonderful place to lie and watch the world at large,\nand to stay cool in and to pretend he was a wolf. The cave was the deep\nspace beneath the piano in the music room. It seemed to have a peculiar\ncharm to Lad. To the end of his days, by the way, this cave was his\nchosen resting place. Nor, in his lifetime, did any other dog set foot\ntherein.\n\nSo much for \"all day and every day.\" But the nights were different.\n\nLad hated the nights. In the first place, everybody went to bed and\nleft him alone. In the second, his hard-hearted owners made him sleep\non a fluffy rug in a corner of the veranda instead of in his delectable\npiano-cave. Moreover, there was no food at night. And there was nobody\nto play with or to go for walks with or to listen to. There was nothing\nbut gloom and silence and dullness. When a puppy takes fifty cat-naps\nin the course of the day, he cannot always be expected to sleep the\nnight through. It is too much to ask. And Lad's waking hours at night\nwere times of desolation and of utter boredom. True, he might have\nconsoled himself, as does many a lesser pup, with voicing his woes in a\nseries of melancholy howls. That, in time, would have drawn plenty of\nhuman attention to the lonely youngster; even if the attention were not\nwholly flattering.\n\nBut Lad did not belong to the howling type. When he was unhappy, he\nwaxed silent. And his sorrowful eyes took on a deeper woe. By the way,\nif there is anything more sorrowful than the eyes of a collie pup that\nhas never known sorrow, I have yet to see it.\n\nNo, Lad could not howl. And he could not hunt for squirrels. For these\nenemies of his were not content with the unsportsmanliness of climbing\nout of his reach in the daytime, when he chased them; but they added to\ntheir sins by joining the rest of the world,--except Lad,--in sleeping\nall night. Even the lake that was so friendly by day was a chilly and\nforbidding playfellow on the cool North Jersey nights.\n\nThere was nothing for a poor lonely pup to do but stretch out on his\nrug and stare in unhappy silence up the driveway, in the impossible\nhope that someone might happen along through the darkness to play with\nhim.\n\nAt such an hour and in such lonesomeness, Lad would gladly have tossed\naside all prejudices of caste,--and all his natural dislikes, and would\nhave frolicked in mad joy with the veriest stranger. Anything was\nbetter than this drear solitude throughout the million hours before the\nfirst of the maids should be stirring or the first of the farmhands\nreport for work. Yes, night was a disgusting time; and it had not one\nsingle redeeming trait for the puppy.\n\nLad was not even consoled by the knowledge that he was guarding the\nslumbrous house. He was not guarding it. He had not the very remotest\nidea what it meant to be a watchdog. In all his five months he had\nnever learned that there is unfriendliness in the world; or that there\nis anything to guard a house against.\n\nTrue, it was instinctive with him to bark when People came down the\ndrive, or appeared at the gates without warning. But more than once the\nMaster had bidden him be silent when a rackety Puppy salvo of barking\nhad broken in on the arrival of some guest. And Lad was still in\nperplexed doubt as to whether barking was something forbidden or merely\nlimited.\n\nOne night,--a solemn, black, breathless August night, when half-visible\nheat lightning turned the murk of the western horizon to pulses of\ndirty sulphur, Lad awoke from a fitful dream of chasing squirrels which\nhad never learned to climb.\n\nHe sat up on his rug, blinking around through the gloom in the half\nhope that some of those non-climbing squirrels might still be in sight.\nAs they were not, he sighed unhappily and prepared to lay his classic\nyoung head back again on the rug for another spell of night-shortening\nsleep.\n\nBut, before his head could touch the rug, he reared it and half of his\nsmall body from the floor and focused his nearsighted eyes on the\ndriveway. At the same time, his tail began to wag a thumping welcome.\n\nNow, by day, a dog cannot see so far nor so clearly as can a human. But\nby night,--for comparatively short distances,--he can see much better\nthan can his master. By day or by darkness, his keen hearing and keener\nscent make up for all defects of eyesight.\n\nAnd now three of Lad's senses told him he was no longer alone in his\ntedious vigil. Down the drive, moving with amusing slowness and\nsilence, a man was coming. He was on foot. And he was fairly well\ndressed. Dogs, the foremost snobs in creation,--are quick to note the\ndifference between a well-clad and a disreputable stranger.\n\nHere unquestionably was a visitor:--some such man as so often came to\nthe Place and paid such flattering attention to the puppy. No longer\nneed Lad be bored by the solitude of this particular night. Someone was\ncoming towards the house;--and carrying a small bag under his arm.\nSomeone to make friends with. Lad was very happy.\n\nDeep in his throat a welcoming bark was born. But he stilled it. Once,\nwhen he had barked at the approach of a stranger, the stranger had gone\naway. If this stranger were to go away, all the night's fun would go\nwith him. Also, no later than yesterday, the Master had scolded Lad for\nbarking at a man who had called. Wherefore the dog held his peace.\n\nGetting to his feet and stretching himself, fore and aft, in true\ncollie fashion, the pup gamboled up the drive to meet the visitor.\n\nThe man was feeling his way through the pitch darkness, groping\ncautiously; halting once or twice for a smolder of lightning to\nsilhouette the house he was nearing. In a wooded lane, a quarter mile\naway, his lightless motor car waited.\n\nLad trotted up to him, the tiny white feet noiseless in the soft dust\nof the drive. The man did not see him, but passed so close to the dog's\nhospitably upthrust nose that he all but touched it.\n\nOnly slightly rebuffed at such chill lack of cordiality, Lad fell in\nbehind him, tail awag, and followed him to the porch. When the guest\nshould ring the bell, the Master or one of the maids would come to the\ndoor. There would be lights and talk; and perhaps Laddie himself might\nbe allowed to slip in to his beloved cave.\n\nBut the man did not ring. He did not stop at the door at all. On tiptoe\nhe skirted the veranda to the old-fashioned bay windows at the south\nside of the living room; windows with catches as old-fashioned and as\nsimple to open as themselves.\n\nLad padded along, a pace or so to the rear;--still hopeful of being\npetted or perhaps even romped with. The man gave a faint but promising\nsign of intent to romp, by swinging his small and very shiny brown bag\nto and fro as he walked. Thus ever did the Master swing Lad's precious\ncanton flannel doll before throwing it for him to retrieve. Lad made a\ntentative snap at the bag, his tail wagging harder than ever. But he\nmissed it. And, in another moment the man stopped swinging the bag and\ntucked it under his arm again as he began to mumble with a bit of steel.\n\nThere was the very faintest of clicks. Then, noiselessly the window\nslid upward. A second fumbling sent the wooden inside shutters ajar.\nThe man worked with no uncertainty. Ever since his visit to the Place,\na week earlier, behind the aegis of a big and bright and newly forged\ntelephone-inspector badge, he had carried in his trained memory the\nlocation of windows and of obstructing furniture and of the primitive\nsmall safe in the living room wall, with its pitifully pickable\nlock;--the safe wherein the Place's few bits of valuable jewelry and\nother compact treasures reposed at night.\n\nLad was tempted to follow the creeping body and the fascinatingly\nswinging bag indoors. But his one effort to enter the house,--with\nmuddy paws,--by way of an open window, had been rebuked by the\nLawgivers. He had been led to understand that really well-bred little\ndogs come in by way of the door; and then only on permission.\n\nSo he waited, doubtfully, at the veranda edge; in the hope that his new\nfriend might reappear or that the Master might perhaps want to show off\nhis pup to the caller, as so often the Master was wont to do.\n\nHead cocked to one side, tulip ears alert, Laddie stood listening. To\nthe keenest human ears the thief's soft progress across the wide living\nroom to the wall-safe would have been all but inaudible. But Lad could\nfollow every phase of it; the cautious skirting of each chair; the\nhesitant pause as a bit of ancient furniture creaked; the halt in front\nof the safe; the queer grinding noise, muffled but persevering, at the\nlock; then the faint creak of the swinging iron door, and the deft\ngroping of fingers.\n\nSoon, the man started back toward the pale oblong of gloom which marked\nthe window's outlines from the surrounding black. Lad's tail began to\nwag again. Apparently, this eccentric person was coming out, after all,\nto keep him company. Now, the man was kneeling on the window-seat. Now,\nin gingerly fashion, he reached forward and set the small bag down on\nthe veranda; before negotiating the climb across the broad seat,--a\nclimb that might well call for the use of both his hands.\n\nLad was entranced. Here was a game he understood. Thus, more than once,\nhad the Mistress tossed out to him his flannel doll, as he had stood in\npathetic invitation on the porch, looking in at her as she read or\ntalked. She had laughed at his wild tossings and other maltreatments of\nthe limp doll. He had felt he was scoring a real hit. And this hit he\ndecided to repeat.\n\nSnatching up the swollen little satchel, almost before it left the\nintruder's hand, Lad shook it, joyously, reveling in the faint clink\nand jingle of the contents. He backed playfully away; the bag-handle\nswinging in his jaws. Crouching low, he wagged his tail in ardent\ninvitation to the stranger to chase him and get back the satchel. Thus\ndid the Master romp with Lad, when the flannel doll was the prize of\ntheir game. And Lad loved such races.\n\nYes, the stranger was accepting the invitation. The moment he had\ncrawled out on the veranda he reached down for the bag. As it was not\nwhere he thought he had left it, he swung his groping hand forward in a\nhalf-circle, his fingers sweeping the floor.\n\nMake that enticing motion, directly in front of a playful collie pup;\nspecially if he has something he doesn't want you to take from\nhim;--and watch the effect.\n\nInstantly, Lad was athrill with the spirit of the game. In one\nscurrying backward jump, he was off the veranda and on the lawn, tail\nvibrating, eyes dancing; satchel held tantalizingly towards its\nwould-be possessor.\n\nThe light sound of his body touching ground reached the man. Reasoning\nthat the sweep of his own arm had somehow knocked the bag off the\nporch, he ventured off the edge of the veranda and flashed a swathed\nray of his pocket light along the ground in search of it.\n\nThe flashlight's lens was cleverly muffled; in a way to give forth but\na single subdued finger of illumination. That one brief glimmer was\nenough to show the thief a right impossible sight. The glow struck\nanswering lights from the polished sides of the brown bag. The bag was\nhanging in air, some six inches above the grass and perhaps five feet\naway from him. Then he saw it swig frivolously to one side and vanish\nin the night.\n\nThe astonished man had seen more. Feeble was the flashlight's shrouded\nray, too feeble to outline against the night the small dark body behind\nthe shining brown bag. But that same ray caught and reflected back to\nthe incredulous beholder two splashes of pale fire;--glints from a pair\nof deep-set collie-eyes.\n\nAs the bag disappeared, the eerie fire-points were gone. The thief all\nbut dropped his flashlight. He gaped in nervous dread; and sought\nvainly to account for the witch-work he had witnessed. He had plenty of\nnerve. He had plenty of experience along his chosen line of endeavor.\nBut, while a crook may control his nerve, he cannot make  it phlegmatic\nor steady. Always, he must be conscious of holding it in check, as a\nclever driver checks and steadies and keeps in subjection a plunging\nhorse. Let the vigilance slacken, and there is a runaway.\n\nNow this particular marauder had long ago keyed his nerve to the chance\nof interruption from some gun-brandishing householder; and to the\npossible pursuit of police; and to the need of fighting or of fleeing.\nBut all his preparations had not taken into account this newest\nemergency. He had not steeled himself to watch unmoved the gliding away\nof a treasure-satchel, apparently moving of its own will; nor the\nshimmer of two greenish sparks in the air just above it. And, for an\ninstant, the man had to battle against a craven desire to bolt.\n\nLad, meanwhile, was having a beautiful time. Sincerely, he appreciated\nthe playful grab his nocturnal friend had made in his general\ndirection. Lad had countered this, by frisking away for another five or\nsix feet, and then wheeling about to face once more his playfellow and\nto await the next move in the blithe gambol. The pup could see\ntolerably well, in the darkness quite well enough to play the game his\nguest had devised. And of course, he had no way of knowing that the man\ncould not see equally well.\n\nShaking off his momentary terror, the thief once more pressed the\nbutton of his flashlight; swinging the torch in a swift semicircle and\nextinguishing it at once; lest the dim glow be seen by any wakeful\nmember of the family.\n\nThat one quick sweep revealed to his gaze the shiny brown bag a\nhalf-dozen feet ahead of him, still swinging several inches above\nground. He flung himself forward at it; refusing to believe he also saw\nthat queer double glow of pale light just above. He dived for the\nsatchel with the speed and the accuracy of a football tackle. And that\nwas all the good it did him.\n\nPerhaps there is something in nature more agile and dismayingly elusive\nthan a romping young collie. But that \"something\" is not a mortal man.\nAs the thief sprang, Lad sprang in unison with him; darting to the left\nand a yard or so backward. He came to an expectant standstill once\nmore; his tail wildly vibrating, his entire furry body tingling with\nthe glad excitement of the game. This sportive visitor of his was a\nveritable godsend. If only he could be coaxed into coming to play with\nhim every night--!\n\nBut presently he noted that the other seemed to have wearied of the\ngame. After plunging through the air and landing on all fours with his\ngrasping hands closing on nothingness, the man had remained thus, as if\ndazed, for a second or so. Then he had felt the ground all about him.\nThen, bewildered, he had scrambled to his feet. Now he was standing,\nmoveless, his lips working.\n\nYes, he seemed to be tired of the lovely game;--and just when Laddie\nwas beginning to enter into the full spirit of it. Once in a while, the\nMistress or the Master stopped playing, during the romps with the\nflannel doll. And Laddie had long since hit on a trick for reviving\ntheir interest. He employed this ruse now.\n\nAs the man stood, puzzled and scared, something brushed very\nlightly,-even coquettishly,--against his knuckles. He started in\nnervous fright. An instant later, the same thing brushed his knuckles\nagain, this time more insistently. The man, in a spurt of fear-driven\nrage, grabbed at the invisible object. His fingers slipped along the\nsmooth sides of the bewitched bag that Lad was shoving invitingly at\nhim.\n\nBrief as was the contact, it was long enough for the thief's sensitive\nfinger tips to recognize what they touched. And both hands were brought\nsuddenly into play, in a mad snatch for the prize. The ten avid fingers\nmissed the bag; and came together with clawing force. But, before they\nmet, the finger tips of the left hand telegraphed to the man's brain\nthat they had had momentary light experience with something hairy and\nwarm,--something that had slipped, eel-like, past them into the\nnight;--something that most assuredly was no satchel, but ALIVE!\n\nThe man's throat contracted, in gagging fright. And, as before, fear\nscourged him to feverish rage.\n\nRecklessly he pressed the flashlight's button; and swung the muffled\nbar of light in every direction. In his other hand he leveled the\npistol he had drawn. This time the shaded ray revealed to him not only\nhis bag, but,--vaguely,--the Thing that held it.\n\nHe could not make out what manner of creature it was which gripped the\nsatchel's handle and whose eyes pulsed back greenish flares into the\ntorch's dim glow. But it was an animal of some kind;--distorted and\nformless in the wavering finger of blunted light; but still an animal.\nNot a ghost.\n\nAnd fear departed. The intruder feared nothing mortal. The mystery in\npart explained, he did not bother to puzzle out the remainder of it.\nImpossible as it seemed, his bag was carried by some living thing. All\nthat remained for him was to capture the thing, and recover his bag.\nThe weak light still turned on, he gave chase.\n\nLad's spirits arose with a bound. His ruse had succeeded. He had\nreawakened in this easily-discouraged chum a new interest in the game.\nAnd he gamboled across the lawn, fairly wriggling with delight. He did\nnot wish to make his friend lose interest again. So instead of dashing\noff at full speed, he frisked daintily, just out of reach of the\nclawing hand.\n\nAnd in this pleasant fashion the two playfellows covered a hundred\nyards of ground. More than once, the man came within an inch of his\nquarry. But always, by the most imperceptible spurt of speed, Laddie\narranged to keep himself and his dear satchel from capture.\n\nThen, in no time at all, the game ended; and with it ended Lad's baby\nfaith in the friendliness and trustworthiness of all human nature.\n\nRealizing that the sound of his own stumblingly running feet and the\nintermittent flashes of his torch might well awaken some light sleeper\nin the house, the thief resolved on a daring move. This creature in\nfront of him,--dog or bear or goat, or whatever it was,--was\nuncatchable. But by sending a bullet through it, he could bring the\nanimal to a sudden and permanent stop.\n\nThen, snatching up his bag and running at top speed, he himself could\neasily win clear of the Place before anyone of the household should\nappear. And his car would be a mile away before the neighborhood could\nbe aroused. Fury at the weird beast and the wrenching strain on his own\nnerves lent eagerness to his acceptance of the idea.\n\nHe reached back again for his pistol, whipped it out, and, coming to a\nstandstill, aimed at the pup. Lad, waiting only to bound over an\nobstruction in his path, came to a corresponding pause, not ten feet\nahead of his playmate.\n\nIt was an easy shot. Yet the bullet went several inches above the\nobligingly waiting dog's back. Nine men out of ten, shooting by\nmoonlight or by flashlight, aim too high. The thief had heard this old\nmarksman-maxim fifty times. But, like most hearers of maxims, he had\nforgotten it at the one time in his speckled career when it might have\nbeen of any use to him.\n\nHe had fired. He had missed. In another second, every sleeper in the\nhouse and in the gate-lodge would be out of bed. His night's work was a\nblank, unless--\n\nWith a bull rush he hurled himself forward at the interestedly waiting\nLad. And, as he sprang, he fired again. Then several things happened.\n\nEveryone, except movie actors and newly-appointed policemen, knows that\na man on foot cannot shoot straight, unless he is standing stock still.\nYet, as luck would have it, this second shot found a mark where the\nfirst and better aimed bullet had gone wild.\n\nLad had leaped the narrow and deep ditch left along the lawn-edge by\nworkers who were putting in a new water-main for the Place. On the far\nside of this obstacle he had stopped, and had waited for his friend to\nfollow. But the friend had not followed. Instead, he had been somehow\nresponsible for a spurt of red flame and for a most thrilling racket.\nLad was more impressed than ever by the man's wondrous possibilities as\na midnight entertainer. He waited, gayly expectant, for more. He got it.\n\nThere was a second rackety explosion and a second puff of lightning\nfrom the man's out-flung hand. But, this time, something like a red-hot\nwhip-lash smote Lad with horribly agonizing force athwart the right hip.\n\nThe man had done this,--the man whom Laddie had thought so friendly and\nplayful!\n\nHe had not done it by accident. For his hand had been out-flung\ndirectly at the pup, just as once had been the arm of the kennelman,\nback at Lad's birthplace, in beating a disobedient mongrel. It was the\nonly beating Lad had ever seen. And it had stuck, shudderingly, in his\nuncannily sensitive memory. Yet now, he himself had just had a like\nexperience.\n\nIn an instant, the pup's trustful friendliness was gone. The man had\ncome on the Place, at dead of night, and had struck him. That must be\npaid for! Never would the pup forget,--his agonizing lesson that night\nintruders are not to be trusted or even to be tolerated. Within a\nsingle second, he had graduated from a little friend of all the world,\ninto a vigilant watchdog.\n\nWith a snarl, he dropped the bag and whizzed forward at his assailant.\nNeedle-sharp milk-teeth bared, head low, ruff abristle, friendly soft\neyes as ferocious as a wolf's, he charged.\n\nThere had been scarce a breathing-space between the second report of\nthe pistol and the collie's counterattack. But there had been time\nenough for the onward-plunging thief to step into the narrow lip of the\nwater-pipe ditch. The momentum of his own rush hurled the upper part of\nhis body forward. But his left leg, caught between the ditch-sides, did\nnot keep pace with the rest of him. There was a hideous snapping sound,\na screech of mortal anguish; and the man crashed to earth, in a dead\nfaint of pain and shock,--his broken left leg still thrust at an\nimpossible angle in the ditch.\n\nLad checked himself midway in his own fierce charge. Teeth bare, throat\nagrowl, he hesitated. It had seemed to him right and natural to assail\nthe man who had struck him so painfully. But now this same man was\nlying still and helpless under him. And the sporting instincts of a\nhundred generations of thoroughbreds cried out to him not to mangle the\ndefenseless.\n\nWherefore, he stood, irresolute; alert for sign of movement on the part\nof his foe. But there was no such sign. And the light bullet-graze on\nhis hip was hurting like the very mischief.\n\nMoreover, every window in the house beyond was blossoming forth into\nlights. There were sounds,--reassuring human sounds. And doors were\nopening. His deities were coming forth.\n\nAll at once, Laddie stopped being a vengeful beast of prey; and\nremembered that he was a very small and very much hurt and very lonely\nand worried puppy. He craved the Mistress's dear touch on his wound,\nand a word of crooning comfort from her soft voice. This yearning was\nmingled with a doubt lest perhaps he had been transgressing the Place's\nLaw, in some new way; and lest he might have let himself in for a\nscolding. The Law was still so queer and so illogical!\n\nLad started toward the house. Then, pausing, he picked up the bag which\nhad been so exhilarating a plaything for him this past few minutes and\nwhich he had forgotten in his pain.\n\nIt was Lad's collie way to pick up offerings (ranging from slippers to\nvery dead fish) and to carry them to the Mistress. Sometimes he was\npetted for this. Sometimes the offering was lifted gingerly between\naloof fingers and tossed back into the lake. But, nobody could well\nrefuse so jingly and pretty a gift as this satchel.\n\nThe Master, sketchily attired, came running down the lawn, flashlight\nin hand. Past him, unnoticed, as he sped toward the ditch, a collie pup\nlimped;--a very unhappy and comfort-seeking puppy who carried in his\nmouth a blood-spattered brown bag.\n\n\"It doesn't make sense to me!\" complained the Master, next day, as he\ntold the story for the dozenth time, to a new group of callers. \"I\nheard the shots and I went out to investigate. There he was lying, half\nin and half out of the ditch. The fellow was unconscious. He didn't get\nhis senses back till after the police came. Then he told some babbling\nyarn about a creature that had stolen his bag of loot and that had\nlured him to the ditch. He was all unnerved and upset, and almost out\nof his head with pain. So the police had little enough trouble in\n'sweating' him. He told everything he knew. And there's a wholesale\nround-up of the motor-robbery bunch going on this afternoon as a result\nof it. But what I can't understand--\"\n\n\"It's as clear as day,\" insisted the Mistress, stroking a silken head\nthat pressed lovingly against her knee. \"As clear as day. I was\nstanding in the doorway here when Laddie came pattering up to me and\nlaid a little satchel at my feet. I opened it, and well, it had\neverything of value in it that had been in the safe over there. That\nand the thief's story make it perfectly plain. Laddie caught the man as\nhe was climbing out of that window. He got the bag away from him; and\nthe man chased him, firing as he went. And he stumbled into the ditch\nand--\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" laughed the Master. \"I'll grant all you say about Lad's\nbeing the most marvelous puppy on earth. And I'll even believe all the\nmiracles of his cleverness. But when it comes to taking a bag of\njewelry from a burglar and then enticing him to a ditch and then coming\nback here to you with the bag--\"\n\n\"Then how do you account--?\"\n\n\"I don't. None of it makes sense to me. As I just said. But, whatever\nhappened, it's turned Laddie into a real watchdog. Did you notice how\nhe went for the police when they started down the drive, last night?\nWe've got a watchdog at last.\"\n\n\"We've got more than a watchdog,\" amended the Mistress. \"An ordinary\nwatchdog would just scare away thieves or bite them. Lad captured the\nthief and then brought the stolen jewelry back to us. No other dog\ncould have done that.\"\n\nLad, enraptured by the note of praise in the Mistress's soft voice,\nlooked adoringly up into the face that smiled so proudly down at him.\nThen, catching the sound of a step on the drive, he dashed out to bark\nin murderous fashion at a wholly harmless delivery boy whom he had seen\nevery day for weeks.\n\nA watchdog can't afford to relax vigilance, for a single\ninstant,--especially at the responsible age of five months.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. The Fetish\n\nFrom the night of the robbery, Lad's high position at the Place was\nassured.\n\nEven in the months of ganglingly leggy awkwardness which generally\nseparate furry puppyhood from dignified collie maturity, he gave sure\npromise of his quality. He was such a dog as is found perhaps once in a\ngeneration; the super-collie that neither knows nor needs such things\nas whip and chain; and that learns the Law with bewildering swiftness.\nA dog with a brain and a mighty heart, as well as an endless fund of\nloveableness and of gay courage.\n\nMonth by month, the youngster developed into a massive giant; his\norange-mahogany coat a miracle of thickness and length, his deep chest\npromising power as well as wolflike grace. His mind and his oddly human\ntraits developed as fast as did his body.\n\nAfter the first month or so he received privileges never to be accorded\nto any other of the Place's dogs in Lad's lifetime. He slept at night\nunder the music-room piano, in the \"cave\" that was his delight. At\nmealtimes he was even admitted into the sacred dining-room, where he\nlay on the floor at the Master's left hand. He had the run of the\nhouse, as fully as any human.\n\nIt was when Lad was eighteen months old that the mad-dog scare swept\nHampton village; and reached its crawly tentacles out across the lake\nto the mile-distant Place.\n\nDown the village street, one day, trotted an enormous black mongrel;\nfull in the center of the roadway. The mongrel's heavy head was low,\nand lolled from side to side with each lurching stride of the big body.\nThe eyes were bloodshot. From the mouth and the hanging dewlaps, flecks\nof foam dropped now and then to the ground.\n\nThe big mongrel was sick of mind and of body. He craved only to get out\nof that abode of men and to find solitude in the forests and hills\nbeyond the village.\n\nFor this is the considerate way of dogs; and of cats as well. When dire\nsickness smites them, they do not hang about, craving sympathy and\ncalling for endless attention. All they want is to get out of the\nway,--well out of the way, into the woods and swamps and mountains;\nwhere they may wrestle with their life-or-death problem in their own\nprimitive manner; and where, if need be, they may die alone and\npeacefully, without troubling anyone else.\n\nEspecially is this true with dogs. If their malady is likely to affect\nthe brain and to turn them savage, they make every possible attempt to\nescape from home and to be as far away from their masters as may be,\nbefore the crisis shall goad them into attacking those they love.\n\nAnd, when some such suffering beast is seen, on his way to solitude, we\nhumans prove our humanity by raising the idiotic bellow of \"Mad dog!\"\nand by chasing and torturing the victim. All this, despite proof that\nnot one sick dog in a thousand, thus assailed, has any disease which is\neven remotely akin to rabies.\n\nNext to vivisection, no crime against helpless animals is so needlessly\nand foolishly cruel as the average mad-dog chase.\n\nWhich is a digression; but which may or may not enable you to keep your\nhead, next time a mad-dog scare sweeps your own neighborhood.\n\nDown the middle of the dusty street trotted the sick mongrel. Five\nminutes earlier, he had escaped from the damp cellar in which his owner\nhad imprisoned him when first he fell ill. And now, his one purpose was\nto leave the village behind him and to gain the leafy refuge of the\nfoothills beyond.\n\nOut from a door-yard, flashed a bumptious little fox terrier. Into the\nroadway he bounded; intent on challenging the bigger animal.\n\nHe barked ferociously; then danced in front of the invalid; yapping and\nsnapping up at the hanging head. The big mongrel, in agony, snarled and\nmade a lunge at his irritatingly dancing tormentor. His teeth dug\ngrazingly into the terrier's withers; and, with an impatient toss, he\nflung the little beast to one side. Then he continued his interrupted\nflight; sick wrath beginning to encompass his reeling brain, at the\nannoyance he had encountered.\n\nThe yell of the slightly hurt terrier brought people to their doors.\nThe sound disturbed a half-breed spaniel from his doze in the dust, and\nsent him out to continue the harrying his injured terrier chum had\nbegun.\n\nThe spaniel flew at the black dog; nipping at the plodding forepaws.\nThe mongrel raged; as might some painfully sick human who is pestered\nwhen he asks only to be let alone. His dull apathy gave place to sullen\nanger. He bit growlingly at the spaniel, throwing himself to one side\nin pursuit of the elusive foe. And he snapped with equal rage at an\nIrish terrier that had come out to add to the turmoil.\n\nBy this time, a score of people were dancing up and down inside their\ndoor-yard fences, squalling \"Mad dog!\" and flinging at the black brute\nany missile they could lay hand to.\n\nA broken flower-pot cut the invalid's nose. A stone rebounded from his\nribs. The raucous human yells completed the work the first dog had\nstarted. From a mere sufferer, the black mongrel had changed into a\nperil.\n\nThe Mistress had motored over to the Hampton post-office, that\nafternoon, to mail some letters. Lad, as usual, had gone with her. She\nhad left him in the car, while she went into the post-office.\n\nLad lay there, in snug contentment, on the car's front seat; awaiting\nthe return of his deity and keeping a watchful eye on anyone who\nchanced to loiter near the machine. Presently, he sat up. Leaning out,\nfrom one side of the seat, he stared down the hot roadway, in a\ndirection whence a babel of highly exciting sounds began to issue.\n\nApparently, beyond that kick-up of dust, a furlong below, all sorts of\ninteresting things were happening. Lad's soft eyes took on a glint of\neager curiosity; and he sniffed the still air for further clues as to\nthe nature of the fun. A number of humans,--to judge by the\nracket,--were shouting and screaming; and the well-understood word,\n\"dog,\" formed a large part of their clamor. Also, there were real dogs\nmixed up in the fracas; and more than one of them had blood on him. So\nmuch the collie's uncanny senses of smell and of hearing told him.\n\nLad whimpered, far down in his throat. He had been left here to guard\nthis car. It was his duty to stay where he was, until the Mistress\nshould return. Yet, right behind him, there, a series of mighty\nentertaining things were happening,--things that he longed to\ninvestigate and to mix into. It was hard to do one's solemn duty as\nwatchdog, when so much of wild interest was astir! Not once did it\noccur to Laddie to desert his post. But he could not forbear that low\nwhimper and a glance of appeal toward the post-office.\n\nAnd now, out of the smear of flying dust, loomed a lurching black\nshape;--gigantic, terrible. It was coming straight toward the car;\nstill almost in mid-road. Behind, less distinct, appeared running men.\nAnd a shot was fired. Somebody had run indoors for a pistol, before\njoining the chase. The same somebody, in the van of the pursuers, had\nopened fire; and was in danger of doing far more damage to life than\ncould a dozen allegedly mad dogs.\n\nJust then, out from the post-office, came the Mistress. Crossing the\nnarrow sidewalk, she neared the car. Lad stood up, wagging his plumed\ntail in welcome; his tiny white forepaws dancing a jig of eagerness on\nthe leather seat-cushion.\n\nOn reeled the black mongrel; crazed by noise and pain. His bleared eyes\ncaught a flash of the Mistress's white dress, on the walk, fifteen feet\nin front of him and a yard or more to one side.\n\nIn a frame of mind when every newcomer was a probable tormenter, the\nmongrel resolved to meet this white-clad foe, head-on. He swerved, with\na stagger, from his bee-line of travel; growled hideously, and sprang\nfull at her.\n\nThe Mistress paused, for an instant, in the middle of the sidewalk, to\nfind out the reason for the sudden din that had assailed her ears as\nshe emerged from the post-office. In that brief moment, she caught the\nmultiple-bellowed phrase of \"Mad dog!\" and saw the black brute charging\ndown upon her.\n\nThere was no time to dart back into the shelter of the building or to\ngain the lesser safety of the car. For the charging mongrel was not\nfive feet away.\n\nThe Mistress stood stock-still; holding her hands at a level with her\nthroat. She did not cry out; nor faint. That was not the Mistress's\nway. Like Lad, she was thoroughbred in soul as well as in body. And\nneither she nor her dog belonged to the breed of screamers. Through her\nmind, in that briefest fraction of a second whizzed the consoling\nthought:\n\n\"He's not mad, whatever else he is. A mad dog never swerves from his\npath.\"\n\nBut if the Mistress remained moveless, Lad did not. Seeing her peril\neven more swiftly than did she, he made one lightning dive from his\nperch on the car seat.\n\nHe did not leap at random. Lad's brain always worked more quickly than\ndid his lithe body; flyingly rapid as were that body's motions. As he\ngathered himself for the spring, his campaign was mapped out.\n\nDown upon the charging beast swooped a furry whirlwind of burnished\nmahogany-and-snow. Down it swooped with the whirring speed and unerring\naim of an eagle. Sixty-odd pounds of sinewy weight smote the lunging\nmongrel, obliquely, on the left shoulder; knocking the great brute's\nlegs from under him and throwing him completely off his balance. Into\nthe dust crashed the two dogs; Lad on top. Before they struck ground,\nthe collie's teeth had found their goal ire the side of the larger\ndog's throat; and every whalebone muscle in Lad's body was braced to\nhold his enemy down.\n\nIt was a clever hold. For the fall had thrown the mongrel on his side.\nAnd so long as Lad should be able to keep the great foaming head in\nthat sideways posture, the other dog could not get his feet under him\nagain. With his legs in their present position, he had no power to get\nup; but lay thrashing and snapping and snarling; and trying with all\nhis cramped might to free himself from the muscular grip that held him\nprostrate.\n\nIt was all over in something like two seconds. Up stormed the crowd;\nthe pistol-wielder at its head. Three shots were fired at point-blank\nrange. By some miracle none of them harmed Lad; although one bullet\nscratched his foreleg on its way to the black giant's brain.\n\nAs soon as she could, the Mistress got herself and the loudly-praised\nLad into the car and set off for home. Now that the peril was over, she\nfelt dizzy and ill. She had seen what it is not well to see. And the\nmemory of it haunted her for many a night thereafter.\n\nAs for Lad, he was still atingle with excitement. The noisy praise of\nthose babbling humans had bothered him; and he had been glad to escape\nit. Lad hated to be mauled or talked to by strangers. But the\nMistress's tremulous squeeze and her shuddering whisper of \"Oh, Laddie!\nLADDIE!\" had shown she was proud of him. And this flattered and\ndelighted Lad, past all measure.\n\nHe had acted on impulse. But, from the Mistress's manner, he saw he had\nmade a wonderful hit with her by what he had done. And his tail thumped\necstatically against the seat as he cuddled very close to her side.\n\nAt home, there was more praise and petting;--this time from both the\nMistress and the Master. And the Master bathed and patched the\ninsignificant bullet-scratch on the collie's foreleg. Altogether, it\nwas a gala afternoon for the young dog. And he loved it.\n\nBut, next morning, there was quite another phase of life awaiting him.\nLike most Great Moments, this exploit of Lad's was not on the free\nlist. And Trouble set in;--grim and sinister trouble.\n\nBreakfast was over. The Mistress and the Master were taking their\nwonted morning stroll through the grounds. Lad cantered along, ahead of\nthem. The light bullet-scratch on his foreleg did not lame or annoy\nhim. He inspected everything of canine interest; sniffing expert\ninquiry at holes which might prove to be rabbit warrens; glaring in\ntruculent threat up some tree which might or might not harbor an\nimpudent squirrel; affecting to see objects of mysterious import in\nbush clumps; crouching in dramatic threat at a fat stag-beetle which\nscuttled across his path.\n\nThere are an immense number of worth-while details for a very young\ncollie, in even the most casual morning walk; especially if his\nMistress and his Master chance to be under his escort. And Laddie\nneglected none of these things. If a troop of bears or a band of\nIndians or a man-eating elephant were lurking anywhere in the shrubbery\nor behind tree-trunks, Lad was not going to fail in discovering and\nrouting out such possible dangers to the peace of mind of his two\nadored deities.\n\nScent and sight presently were attracted by a feeble fluttering under a\nlow-limbed catalpa tree in whose branches a pair of hysterical robins\nwere screeching. Lad paused, his tulip ears at attention, his plumed\ntail swaying. Then he pushed his long muzzle through a clump of grass\nand emerged carrying a flapping and piping morsel between his mighty\njaws. The birds, on the limb above, redoubled their frenzied chirping;\nand made little futile dashes at the collie's head.\n\nUnheeding, Lad walked back to the Mistress and laid gently at her feet\nthe baby robin he had found. His keen teeth had not so much as ruffled\nits pinfeather plumage. Having done his share toward settling the\nbird's dilemma, Laddie stood back and watched in grave interest while\nthe Mistress lifted the fluttering infant and put it back in the nest\nwhence it had fallen.\n\n\"That makes the fifth baby bird Laddie has brought to me in a month,\"\nshe commented, as she and the Master turned back toward the house. \"To\nsay nothing of two field mice and a broken-winged bat. He seems to\nthink I'll know what to do for them.\"\n\n\"I only hope he won't happen upon a newborn rattlesnake or copperhead\nand bring it to you for refuge,\" answered the Master. \"I never saw\nanother dog, except a trained pointer or setter, that could handle\nbirds so tenderly. He--\"\n\nThe bumping of a badly handled rowboat, against the dock, at the foot\nof the lawn, a hundred yards below, checked his rambling words. Lad, at\nsudden attention, by his master's side, watched the boat's occupant\nclamber clumsily out of his scow; then stamp along the dock and up the\nlawn toward the house. The arrival was a long and lean and lank and\nlantern-jawed man with a set of the most fiery red whiskers ever seen\noutside a musical comedy. The Master had seen him several times, in the\nvillage; and recognized him as Homer Wefers, the newly-appointed\nTownship Head Constable. The Mistress recognized him, too, as the\nvehement official whose volley of pistol-bullets had ended the\nsufferings of the black mongrel. She shivered, in reminiscence, as she\nlooked at him. The memory he evoked was not pleasant.\n\n\"Morning!\" Wefers observed, curtly, as the Master, with Lad beside him,\nstepped forward to greet the scarlet-bearded guest. \"I tried to get\nover here, last night. But I guess it's soon enough, today. Has he\nshowed any signs, yet?\" He nodded inquiringly at the impassive Lad, as\nhe spoke.\n\n\"'Soon enough' for what?\" queried the puzzled Master.\n\n\"And what sort of 'signs' are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Soon enough to shoot that big brown collie of yours,\" explained\nWefers, with businesslike briskness. \"And I'm asking if he's showed any\nsigns of hydrophoby. Has he?\"\n\n\"Are you speaking of Laddie?\" asked the Mistress, in dismay; as the\nslower-witted Master, stared and gulped. \"Why should he show any signs\nof hydrophobia? He--\"\n\n\"If he hasn't, he will,\" rapped out the visitor. \"Or he would, if he\nwasn't put out of the way. That's what I'm here for. But I kind of\nhoped maybe you folks might have done it, yourselves. Can't be too\ncareful, you know. 'Specially--\"\n\n\"What in blue blazes are you blithering about?\" roared the Master,\nfinding his voice and marshaling his startled wits. \"Do you mean--\"\n\n\"I mean,\" said Wefers, rebuking with a cold glare the Master's\ndisrespectful manner, \"I mean I'm here to shoot that big collie of\nyours. He was bit by a mad dog, yesterday. So was three other dogs over\nin the village. I shot 'em all; before they had time to d'velop\nsymptoms and things; or bite anybody. One of 'em,\" he added,\nunctuously, \"one of 'em b'longed to that little crippled Posthanger\ngirl. She cried and begged, something pitiful, when I come for him. But\ndooty is dooty. So I--\"\n\n\"OH!\"\n\nThe Mistress's horrified monosyllable broke in on the smug recital. She\ncaught Lad protectingly by the ruff and stared in mute dread at the\nlanky and red-whiskered officer. Lad, reading her voice as always,\ndivined this nasal-toned caller had said or done something to make her\nunhappy. His ruff bristled. One corner of his lip lifted in something\nwhich looked like a smile, but which was not. And, very far down in his\nthroat a growl was born.\n\nBut the Master stepped in front of his wife and his dog, and confronted\nthe constable. Fighting for calmness, he asked:\n\n\"Do I understand that you shot those harmless little pups just because\na dog that was sick, and not rabid, happened to nip them? And that\nyou've come across here with an idea of doing the same thing to Lad? Is\nthat it?\"\n\n\"That's the idea,\" assented Wefers. \"I said so, right off, as soon as I\ngot here. Only, you're wrong about the dog being 'sick.' He was mad.\nHad rabies. I'd ought to know. I--\"\n\n\"How and why ought you to know?\" demanded the Master, still battling\nfor perfect calm, and succeeding none too well. \"How ought you to know?\nAre you a veterinary? Have you ever made a study of dogs and of their\nmaladies? Have you ever read up, carefully, on the subject of rabies?\nHave you read Eberhardt or Dr. Bennett or Skinner or any of a dozen\nother authorities on the disease? Have you consulted such eminent vets\nas Hopper and Finch, for instance? If you have, you certainly must know\nthat a dog, afflicted with genuine rabies, will no more turn out of his\nway to bite anyone than a typhoid patient will jump out of bed to chase\na doctor. I'm not saying that the bite of any sick animal (or of any\nsick human, for that matter) isn't more or less dangerous; unless it's\ncarefully washed out and painted with iodine. But that's no excuse to\ngo around the country, shooting every dog that some sick mongrel has\nsnapped at. Put such dogs under observation, if necessary; and then--\"\n\n\"You talk like a fool!\" snorted Wefers, in lofty contempt. \"I--\"\n\n\"But I am going to keep you from acting like a fool,\" returned the\nMaster, his hard-held temper beginning to fray. \"You say you've come\nover here to shoot my dog. If ever anyone shoots Lad, I'll be the man\nto do it. And I'll have to have lots better reason for it than--\"\n\n\"Go ahead, then!\" vouchsafed the constable, fishing out a rusty service\npistol from his coat-tail pocket. \"Go ahead and do it yourself, then;\nif you'd rather. It's all one to me, so long's it's done.\"\n\nWith sardonic politeness, he proffered the bulky weapon. The Master\ncaught it from his hand and flung it a hundred feet away, into the\ncenter of a clump of lilacs.\n\n\"So much for the gun!\" he blazed, advancing an the astounded Wefers.\n\"Now, unless you want to follow it--\"\n\n\"Dear!\" expostulated the Mistress, her sweet voice atremble.\n\n\"I'm an of'cer of the law!\" blustered the offended constable; in the\nsame breath adding:\n\n\"And resisting an of'cer in the p'soot of his dooty is a misde--\"\n\nHe checked himself, unconsciously turning to observe the odd actions of\nLad.\n\nAs the Master had hurled the pistol far from him, the collie had sped\nin breakneck pursuit of it. Thus, always, did he delight to retrieve\nany object the Mistress or the Master might toss for his amusement. It\nwas one of Laddie's favorite games, this fetching back of anything\nthrown. The farther it might be flung and the more difficult its\nlanding place, the more zest to the sport.\n\nThis time, Lad was especially glad at the diversion. From the voices of\nthese deities of his, Lad had gathered that the Master was furiously\nangry and that the Mistress was correspondingly unhappy. Also, that the\nlanky and red-bearded visitor was directly responsible for their stress\nof feeling. He had been eyeing alternately the Master and Wefers;\ntensely awaiting some overt act or some word of permission which should\nwarrant him in launching himself on the intruder.\n\nAnd now, it seemed, the whole thing was a game;--a game wherein he\nhimself had been invited to play a merry and spectacular part.\nJoyously, he flew after the hurtling lump of steel and rubber.\n\nThe Master, facing the constable, did not see his pet's performance. He\ntook up the thread of speech where Wefers dropped it.\n\n\"I don't know what the law does or doesn't empower you to do, in such\ncases,\" he said, trying to force his way back to the earlier semblance\nof calm. \"But I doubt if it permits you to trespass on my land, without\na warrant or a court order of some sort; or to shoot a dog of mine.\nAnd, until I find out the law in the matter, you'll get off this place\nand keep off of it. As for the dog, I'll be legally responsible for\nhim; and I'll guarantee he'll do no damage. So--\"\n\nLike Wefers, the Master came to an abrupt halt in his harangue.\n\nFor Lad was cantering gleefully toward him, carrying something dark and\nheavy between his jaws. Straight to the Master came Lad. Carefully, at\nthe Master's feet, he laid the rusty pistol.\n\nThen, stepping back a pace, he looked up, eagerly, into the dumfounded\nman's face, tail waving, dark eyes aglint with expectation. It had been\nhard to locate the weapon, in all that tangle of lilac-stems. It had\nbeen harder to carry the awkwardly heavy thing all the way back, in his\nmouth, without dropping it. But, if this was the plaything the Master\nhad chosen, Lad was only too willing to continue the game.\n\nA little choking sound made the collie shift his gaze suddenly to the\nMistress's troubled face. And the light of fun in his eyes was\nquenched. The sight of her splendid dog retrieving so joyously the\nweapon designed for his death, was almost too much for the Mistress's\nself-control.\n\nThe effect on the Master was different.\n\nAs Wefers made as though to jump forward and grab the pistol, the\nMaster said sharply:\n\n\"WATCH it, Laddie!\"\n\nInstantly, Lad was on the alert. The game, it seemed, had begun again,\nand along sterner lines. He was to guard this plaything;--particularly\nfrom the bearded intruder who was snatching so avidly for it.\n\nThere was a sharp growl, a flash of fierce white teeth, a bound. One of\nLad's snowy little forepaws was on the fallen pistol. And the rest of\nLad's sinewy body was crouching above it, fangs aglint, eyes blazing\nwith hot menace.\n\nWefers jerked back his protruding arm, with extreme quickness; barely\navoiding a deep slash from the collie's shearing eye-teeth. And Lad,\ncontinued to \"watch\" the pistol.\n\nThe dog was having a lovely time. Seldom had he been happier. All good\ncollies respond in semi-psychic fashion to the moods of their masters.\nAnd, to Lad, the very atmosphere about him was thrilling just now to\nwaves of stark excitement. With the delightful vanity which is a part\nof the collie make-up, he realized that in some manner he himself was a\nprominent part of this excitement. And he reveled in it.\n\nAs Wefers pulled back his imperiled arm, the Mistress stepped forward,\nbefore the Master could speak or move.\n\n\"Even if it were true that he could get rabies by a bite from a rabid\ndog,\" said she, \"and even if that dog, yesterday, were mad, that\nwouldn't affect Laddie. For he didn't bite Laddie. He never got the\nchance. Lad pinned him to the ground. And while the mongrel was\nstruggling to get up, you shot him. One of your bullets flicked Lad's\nforeleg. But the mongrel's teeth never came within twelve inches of\nhim. I can testify to that.\"\n\n\"He was fighting with a mad dog!\" reiterated Wefers, fumingly. \"I saw\n'em, myself. And when a dog is fighting, he's bound to get bit. I'm not\nhere to argue over it. I'm here to enforce the law of the sov'r'n State\nof Noo Jersey, County of P'saic, Township of--\"\n\n\"But the law declares a prisoner innocent, till he's proved guilty,\"\nurged the Mistress, restraining the Master, by a light hand on his\nrestless arm. \"And Lad's not been proved guilty. It isn't proved he was\nbitten, at all. I can testify he wasn't. My husband washed the scratch\nand he can tell you it wasn't made by a bite. Any veterinary can tell\nyou the same thing, at a glance. We can establish the fact that Lad was\nnot bitten. So even if the law lets you shoot a bitten dog,--which I\ndon't believe it does,--it doesn't empower you to shoot Lad. Why!\" she\nwent on, shuddering slightly, \"if Lad hadn't sprung between that brute\nand myself, you'd probably be wanting to shoot ME! For I'd have been\nbitten, terribly, if Lad hadn't--\"\n\n\"I'm not here to listen to silly nonsense!\" announced Wefer, glaring at\nthe watchful dog and back at the man and woman, \"I came here in p'soot\nof my sworn dooty. I been balked and resisted by the two of you; and my\npistol's been stole from me and a savage dog's been pract'c'lly sicked\nonto me. I'm an of'cer of the law. And I'm going to have the law on\nboth of you, for int'fering with me like you have. And I'm going to get\na court order to shoot--\"\n\n\"Then you haven't a court order or any other authority to shoot him?\"\nthe Master caught him up. \"You admit that! You came over here, thinking\nyou could bluff us into letting you do it, just because you happen to\nwear a tin badge! I thought so. Now, my pink-whiskered friend, you'll\nstop shouting and making faces; and you'll listen to me, a minute. You\naren't the first officer who has exceeded his authority on the chance\nthat people will think he's acting within his rights. This time the\nbluff fails. With no warrant or summons or other legal power to back\nhim, a constable has no more right on my place than any negro\ntrespasser. What you may or may not be able to persuade some magistrate\nto do about this, I don't know. But, for the present, you'll clear out.\nGet that? I've warned you, in the presence of a witness. If you know\nanything of law, you know that a landowner, after such warning, may\neject a trespasser by force. Go. And keep going. That's all.\"\n\nWefers sputtered wordlessly, from time to time, during the tirade. But\nbefore its end, he fell silent and began to fidget. He himself was none\ntoo well versed in the matter of his legal rights of intrusion. And,\nfor the moment, he had no chance to execute his errand. Later, armed\nwith a magistrate's order, he could pay back with interest his\nhumiliation of this morning. In the meantime--\n\n\"Gimme my gun!\" he demanded in grouchy surrender.\n\nThe Master stooped; picked up the pistol, and held it in both hands.\nLad, all eagerness, stood dancingly waiting for him to throw it again.\nBut it was not thrown. Instead, the Master \"broke\" the weapon; shaking\nthe greasy cartridges out on to his own palm and then transferring them\nto his pockets.\n\n\"In case of accidents,\" he explained, pleasantly, as he handed the\npistol back to its scowling owner. \"And if you'll stop at the\npost-office, this afternoon, you'll find these shells in an envelope in\nyour letter-box. Now, chase; unless you want Lad to escort you to your\nboat. Lad is fine at escorting undesirables off the Place. Want to see\nhim perform?\"\n\nBut Wefers did not answer. Snatching the impotent pistol and shoving it\nback into his coattail pocket, he strode lakeward, muttering lurid\nthreats as he went.\n\nThe Mistress watched his lank figure on its way down the lawn to the\ndock.\n\n\"It's-it's AWFUL!\" she faltered, clutching at her husband's arm. \"Oh,\nyou don't suppose he can--can really get leave to shoot Laddie, do you?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" answered the Master, as uneasy as she. \"A mad-dog scare\nhas a way of throwing everybody into a fool panic. There's no knowing\nwhat some magistrate may let him do. But one thing is mighty certain,\"\nhe reassured her. \"If the whole National Guard of New Jersey comes\nhere, with a truckload of shooting-warrants, they aren't going to get\nLaddie. I promise you that. I don't quite know how we are going to\nprevent it. But we're going to. That's a pledge. So you're not to\nworry.\"\n\nAs they talked they continued to watch the constable in his clumping\nexit from the Place. Wefers reached the dock, and stamped out to its\nextreme end, where was moored the livery scow he had commandeered for\nhis journey across the lake from the village.\n\nA light wind was blowing. It had caught the scow's wide stern and had\nswung it out from the dock. Wefers unhooked the chain and dropped it\nclankingly into the bottom. Then, with ponderous uncertainty, he\nstepped from the dock's string-piece to the prow of his boat.\n\nA whiff of breeze slapped the loosened scow, broadside on, and sent it\ndrifting an inch or two away. As a result, Homer Wefers' large\nshoe-sole was planted on the edge of the prow, instead of its center.\nHis sole was slippery from the dew of the lawn. The prow's edge was\nstill more slippery, from having been the scene of a recent\nfish-cleaning.\n\nThe constable's gangling body strove in vain to hold any semblance of\nbalance. His foot slid out from its precarious perch, pushing the boat\nfarther into the lake. And the dignified officer flapped wildly in\nmid-air.\n\nNot being built on a lighter-than-air principle, he failed to hold this\nundignified aerial pose for more than the tenth of a second. At the end\nof that time he plunged splashingly into the lake, at a depth of\nsomething like eight feet of water.\n\n\"Good!\" applauded the Master, as the Mistress gasped aloud in not\nwholly sorrowful surprise and as Lad ambled gayly down the lawn for a\ncloser view of this highly diverting sight. \"Good! I hope he ruins\nevery stitch he has on; and then gets rheumatism and tonsilitis. He--\"\n\nThe Master's babbling jaw fell slack; and the pleased grin faded from\nhis face.\n\nWefers had come to the surface, after his ducking. He was fully three\nyards beyond the dock and as far from his drifting scow. And he was\ndoing all manner of sensational things with his lanky arms and legs and\nbody. In brief, he was doing everything except swim.\n\nIt was this phenomenon which had wiped away the Master's grin of pure\nhappiness.\n\nAny man may fall into the water, and may present a most ludicrous\nspectacle in doing so. But, on the instant he comes to the surface, his\nvery first motions will show whether or not he is a swimmer. It had not\noccurred to the Master that anyone reared in the North Jersey\nlake-country should not have at least enough knowledge of swimming to\ncarry him a few yards. But, even as many sailors cannot swim a stroke,\nso many an inlander, born and brought up within sight of fresh water,\nhas never taken the trouble to grasp the simplest rudiments of\nnatation. And such a man, very evidently, was Homer Wefers, Township\nHead Constable.\n\nHis howl of crass panic was not needed to prove this to the Master. His\nevery wild antic showed it. But that same terror-stricken screech was\nrequired to set forth the true situation to the one member of the trio\nwho had learned from birth to judge by sound and by scent, rather than\nby mere sight.\n\nWith no good grace, the Master yanked off his own coat and waistcoat,\nand bent to unstrap his hiking boots. He did not relish the prospect of\na wetting, for the mere sake of saving from death this atrocious\ntrespasser. He knew the man could probably keep afloat for at least a\nminute longer. And he was not minded to shorten the period of fear by\nripping off his own outer garments with any melodramatic haste.\n\nAs he undid the first boot-latchet, he felt the Mistress's tense\nfingers on his shoulder.\n\n\"Wait!\" she exhorted\n\nAstounded at this cold-blooded counsel from his tender-hearted wife, he\nlooked up, and followed the direction of her eagerly pointing hand.\n\n\"Look!\" she was exulting. \"It'll all solve itself! See if it doesn't.\nLook! He can't shoot Laddie, after--after--\"\n\nThe Master was barely in time to see Lad swirl along the dock with\nexpress-train speed and spring far out into the lake.\n\nThe dog struck water, a bare ten inches from Wefers' madly tossing\nhead. The constable, in his crazy panic, flung both bony arms about the\ndog. And, man and collie together disappeared under the surface, in a\nswirl of churned foam.\n\nThe Mistress cried aloud, at this hideous turn her pretty plan had\ntaken. The Master, one shoe off and one shoe on, hobbled at top pace\ntoward the dock.\n\nAs he reached the foot of the lawn, Lad's head and shoulders came into\nview above the little whirlpool caused by the sinking bodies' suction.\nAnd, at the same moment, the convulsed features of Homer Wefers showed\nthrough the eddy. The man was thrashing and twisting in a way that\nturned the lake around him into a white maelstrom.\n\nAs the Master set foot on the dock he saw the Collie rush forward with\nan impetus that sent both shaggy mahogany shoulders far out of water.\nStriking with brilliant accuracy, the dog avoided Wefers' flailing arms\nand feet, and clinched his strong teeth into the back of the drowning\nman's collar.\n\nThus, Lad was safe from the blindly clinging arms and from a kick. He\nhad chosen the one strategic hold; and he maintained it. A splashing of\nthe unwieldy body made both heads vanish under water, for a bare\nhalf-second, as the Master poised himself on the string-piece for a\ndive. But the dive was not made.\n\nFor the heads reappeared. And now, whether from palsy of fright or from\nbelated intelligence,--Wefers ceased his useless struggles; though not\nhis strangled shrieks for help. The collie, calling on all his wiry\npower, struck out for the dock; keeping the man's face above water, and\ntugging at his soggy weight with a scientific strength that sent the\ntwo, slowly but steadily, shoreward.\n\nAfter the few feet of the haul, Wefers went silent. Into his blankly\naffrighted face came a look of foolish bewilderment. The Master,\nremembering his wife's hint, and certain now of Lad's ability to\ncomplete the rescue, stood waiting on the string-piece. Once, for a\nsecond, Wefers' eyes met his; but they were averted in queer haste.\n\nAs Lad tugged his burden beneath the stringpiece, the Master bent down\nand gripped the sodden wet shoulders of the constable. One\nnone-too-gentle heave, and Wefers was lying in a panting and dripping\nheap on the clean dock. Lad, relieved of his heavy load, swam leisurely\naround to shore. It had been a delightfully thrilling day, thus far,\nfor the collie. But he was just a bit tired.\n\nBy the time the dazed constable was able to sit up and peer owlishly\ninto the unloving faces of the Mistress and the Master, Lad had shaken\nhimself thrice and was pattering across the dock toward the group. From\nthe two humans, Wefers' gaze shifted to the oncoming dog. Then he\nglanced back at the sullen depths of lake water beyond the\nstring-piece. Then he let his head sink on his chest. For perhaps a\nwhole minute, he sat thus; his eyes shut, his breath still fast and\nhysterical.\n\nNobody spoke. The Mistress looked down at the drenched man. Then she\nwinked at the equally silent Master, and laid a caressing little hand\non Lad's wet head. At length, Wefers lifted his face and glowered at\nthe trio. But, as his eye met Lad's quizzically interested gaze, he\nfidgeted.\n\n\"Well?\" prompted the Master, \"do you want those cartridges back?\"\n\nWefers favored him with a scowl of utter dislike. Then, his eyes again\naverted, the wet man mumbled:\n\n\"I come over here today, to do my dooty.--Dogs that get bit by mad dogs\nhad ought to be shot.--I come over here to do my dooty. Likewise, I\ndone it.--I shot that dog of yours that got bit, yest'day.\"\n\n\"Huh?\" ejaculated the Master.\n\n\"This dog here looks some like him,\" went on Wefers, sulkily. \"But it\nain't him. And I'll so report to the author'ties.--I done what I come\nto do. The case is closed. And-and-if you folks ever want to sell your\ndog, why,--well, I'll just go mortgage something and--and buy him off'n\nyou!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. No Trespassing!\n\nThere were four of them; two gaudily-clad damsels and two men. The men,\nin their own way, were attired as gloriously as the maidens they were\nescorting.  The quartet added generously to the glowing beauty of the\nsummer day.\n\nDown the lake they came, in a canoe modestly scarlet except for a\nsingle broad purple stripe under the gunwale. The canoe's tones blended\nsweetly with the pink parasol and blue picture hat of one of the women.\n\nStolid and unshaven fishermen, in drab scows, along the canoe's route,\nlooked up from their lines, in bovine wonder at the vision of\nloveliness which swept resonantly past them. For the quartet were\nwarbling. They were also doing queer musical stunts which are fondly\nmiscalled \"close harmony.\"\n\nThus do they and their kind pay homage to a divine day on a fire-blue\nlake, amid the hush of the eternal hills. Lesser souls may find\nthemselves speaking in few and low-pitched words, under the holy spell\nof such surroundings. But to loftier types of holiday-seekers, the\nbenignant silences of the wilderness are put there by an all-wise\nProvidence for the purpose of being fractured by any racket denoting\ncare-free merriment;--the louder the merrier. There is nothing so\nracket-breeding as a perfect day amid perfect scenery.\n\nThe four revelers had paddled down into the lake, on a day's\npicnicking. They had come from far up the Ramapo river; beyond Suffern.\nAnd the long downstream jaunt had made them hungry. Wherefore, as they\nreached mid-lakes they began to inspect the wooded shores for an\nattractive luncheon-site. And they found what they sought.\n\nA half-mile to southward, a gently rolling point of land pushed out\ninto the lake. It was smooth-shaven and emerald-bright. It formed the\nlower end of a lawn; sloping gently downward, a hundred yards or more,\nfrom a gray old house which nestled happily among mighty oaks on a\nplateau at the low hill's summit.\n\nThe point (with its patch of beach-sand at the water's edge, and with\ncomfortable shade from a lakeside tree or so), promised an ideal\npicnic-ground. The shaven grass not only offered fine possibilities for\nan after-luncheon snooze; but was the most convenient sort of place for\nthe later strewing of greasy newspapers and Japanese napkins and wooden\nplatters and crusts and chicken bones and the like.\n\nMoreover, a severely plain \"No Trespass\" sign, at the lake-margin,\nwould serve as ideal kindling for a jolly little camp-fire. There is\nalways a zest in using trespass boards for picnic fires. Not only are\nthey seasoned and painted in a way to cause quick ignition, but people\nlaugh so appreciatively, when one tells, afterward, of the bit of\njovial audacity.\n\nYes, this point was just the place for luncheon and for siesta. It\nmight have been made to order. And by tacit consent the two paddlers\nsent their multi-chrome canoe sweeping toward it. Five minutes later,\nthey had helped the girls ashore and were lifting out the lunch-basket\nand various newspaper parcels and the red-and-purple cushions.\n\nWith much laughter and a snatch or two of close harmony, the lunch was\nspread. One of the men picked out a place for the fire (against the\ntrunk of a two-century oak; perhaps the millionth noble old tree to be\nthreatened thus with death from care-free picnickers' fires) and the\nother man sauntered across to the trespass board to annex it for\nkindling.\n\nEverything was so happy and so complete and everyone was having such a\nperfect time! Into such moments Fate loves best to toss Trouble. And,\nthis day, Fate played true to form.\n\nAs the fire-maker's hand was laid on the trespass board, even as his\ninconsequential muscles were braced to rip it loose from its post,--a\nsqueal from the girl in the blue picture hat and the Nile-green\ngeorgette waist, checked his mirthful activities.\n\nNow, there was nothing remarkable in the fact that the chromatic lass\nhad squealed. Indeed, she and her equally fair companion had been\nsquealing at intervals, all morning. But there was nothing coquettish\nor gay about this particular squeal. It savored rather of a screech. In\nits shrill note was a tiny thread of terror. And the two men wheeled\nabout, to look.\n\nThe blue-hatted girl had paused in her dainty labor of helping to\nspread out the lunch; in order to peep inquisitively up the slope\ntoward the tree-framed house above. It might be fun, after eating, to\nstroll up there and squint in through the veranda windows; or,--if no\none was at home, to gather an armful of the roses that clambered over\none end of the porch.\n\nDuring that brief exploratory glance, her eye had been caught by\nsomething moving through the woods beyond.\n\nBehind the house, these woods ran up to the highroad, a furlong above.\nA driveway led twistingly down from the gate-lodge, to the house. Along\nthis drive, was pacing a dog.\n\nAs the girl caught sight of him, the dog halted in his lazy stroll and\nstood eagerly erect, his nose upraised, his tulip ears pricked. Sound\nor scent, or both, had been arrested by some unusual presence. And he\npaused to verify the warning.\n\nAs he stood there, an instant, in the shade-flecked driveway, the girl\nsaw he was a collie; massive, graceful, majestic; in the full strength\nof his early prime; his shaggy coat of burnished mahogany-and-snow\nglinting back the showers of sun-rays that filtered down through the\nleaves.\n\nBefore the watching girl could take further note of him, the dog's\naspect of tense listening merged into certainty. With no further shadow\nof doubt as to direction, he set off at a sweeping run past the house\nand toward the point.\n\nHe ran with head down; and with tawny ruff abristle. There was\nsomething in his lithe gallop that was as ominous as it was beautiful.\nAnd, nervous at the great collie's approach, the girl squealed.\n\nIt had been a dull morning for Lad. The Mistress was in town for the\nday. The Master was shut up in his study, hard at work. And, for once,\nhe had not remembered to call Lad to a resting place on the study rug;\nbefore closing the door on the outside world. Alone and bored, the\ncollie had wandered into the woods; in quest of possible rabbits to\nchase or squirrels to tree. Finding the sport tame, he started\nhomeward. Midway down the drive, his supersensitive nostrils caught the\nwhiff of alien humans on the Place. At the same time, he heard the\nraucous gabbling of several voices. Though his near-sighted eyes did\nnot yet show the intruders to him, yet scent and sound made it\nridiculously easy for him to trace them.\n\nFrom early puppyhood, Lad had been the official guardian of the Place.\nHe knew the limits of its thirty acres; from lake to highroad; from\nboundary fence to boundary fence. He knew, too, that visitors must not\nbe molested as long as they were on the driveway; but that no stranger\nmight be allowed to cross the land, by any other route; or to trespass\non lawn or oak-grove.\n\nAnd now, apparently, strangers were holding some sort of unlicensed\nrevelry, down on the point. His sense of smell told him that neither\nthe Master nor anyone else belonging to the Place was with them. True\nwatchdog indignation swelled up in Lad's heart. And he ran at top speed.\n\nThe girl's three companions, turning at sight of her gesturing hand,\nbeheld a mahogany-and-white thunderbolt whizzing down the hundred-yard\nslope toward them.\n\nIt chanced that both the men had served long apprenticeship as\ndog-fanciers; and that both of them knew collies. Thus, no second look\nwas needed. One glimpse of the silently charging Lad told them all they\nneeded to know. Not in this way does a blatant or bluffing watchdog\nseek to shoo off trespassers. This giant collie, with his lowered head\nand glinting fangs and ruffling hackles, meant business. And the men\nacted accordingly.\n\n\"Run for it!\" bellowed one of them; setting a splendid example by\nreaching the beached canoe at a single scrambling bound. The second man\nwas no whit behind him. Between them, the canoe, at one shove, was\nlaunched. The first man grabbed one of the girls by the arm and\npropelled her into the wobbling craft; while the other shoved off. The\nremaining girl,--she of the azure headgear and the verdant\nwaist,--slipped on the grassy bank, in her flight, and sat down very\nhard, at the water's edge. Already the canoe was six feet from shore;\nand both men were doing creditable acrobatic stunts to keep it from\nturning turtle.\n\n\"Stand perfec'ly still,\" one of them exhorted the damsel, as he saw\nwith horror that she had been left ashore in the tumbling flight.\n\"Stand still and don't holler! Keep your hands high. It's likely he\nwon't bother you. These highbred collies are pretty gentle with women;\nbut some of 'em are blue murder to strange men. He--\"\n\nThe man swayed for balance. His fellow-hero had brought the canoe\nabout, in an effort to smite with uplifted paddle at the oncoming dog\nwithout venturing too close to the danger-line.\n\nIn the same moment, Lad had gained the brink of the lake. Ignoring the\npanic-struck woman on the bank, he flashed past her and galloped,\nbody-deep, into the water; toward the swaying canoe.\n\nHere he paused. For Lad was anything but a fool. And, like other wise\ncollies, he had sense enough to realize that a swimming dog is one of\nthe most helpless creatures in the universe; when it comes to\nself-defense.\n\nAshore, or in water shallow enough to maneuver his powerful body, Lad\ncould give excellent account of himself against any normal foe. But,\nbeyond his depth, he would fall easy victim to the first well-aimed\npaddle-stroke. And he knew it. Thus, hesitant, his snarling teeth not\ntwo yards from the canoe, he stood growling in futile indignation at\nthe cranky craft's crankier occupants.\n\nThe girl who remained on shore plucked up enough panic-courage to catch\nher gaudy pink parasol by the ferule and to swing its heavy handle with\nall her fear-driven strength at Lad's skull. Luckily, the aim was as\nbad as it was vehement. The handle grazed the dog's shoulder, then\nstruck the lake with a force that snapped the flimsy parasol in two.\nWhereat the girl shrieked aloud; and scuttled back as Lad spun around\nto face her.\n\nBut she might as well have spared herself the scream. She was in no\ndanger. True, the collie had whirled to seek and resent this new source\nof attack. But, seeing only a yelling and retreating woman behind him,\nhe contented himself with a menacing growl, and turned again toward the\ncanoe.\n\nOne of the men, poising himself, had swung aloft his paddle. Now, with\nfull strength, he  brought down the edged blade at the dog's head.\n\nBut it is one thing to aim a blow, from a tilting canoe; and quite\nanother to make that blow land in the spot aimed for.\n\nThe whizzing paddle-blade missed Lad, clean. Not only because the dog\nveered sharply aside as it descended, but because the canoe, under the\njarring heave of the striker's body, proceeded to turn turtle.\n\nInto the water plopped the two men. Into the water, with them, splashed\ntheir rescued companion. This gentle soul had not ceased screaming,\nfrom the time she was hauled aboard. But now, submergence cut short her\ncries. A second later, the lamentations recommenced; in higher if more\nliquid volume. For, the shore, at the point sloped very gradually out\nto deeper water. And immediately, she and the two men had regained\ntheir foothold.\n\nThere, chest deep the trio stood or staggered. And, there, between them\nand the beach, raged Lad. None of the three cared to risk wading\nshoreward, with such an obstacle between themselves and land. The girl\non the bank added her quota of squalls to those of her semi-engulfed\nfriend; and one of the men began to reach far under water for a rock to\nthrow at the guard dog.\n\nThe first shrill cry had reached the Master, as he sat at work in his\nstudy. Down the slope he came running; and stopped in slack-jawed amaze\nat the tableau in front of him.\n\nOn the bank hopped and wriggled a woman in vivid garments,--a woman who\nwaved a broken parasol and seemed to be practicing an Indian war-howl.\nElbow deep in the placid waters of the lake floundered another woman\nalmost as wonderfully attired as the first, and quite as vocal. On\neither side of her was a drenched and gesticulating man. In the\nbackground bobbed an upset canoe. Between the two disrupted factions of\nthe happy picnic party stood Lad.\n\nThe collie had ceased to growl; and, with head on one side, was looking\nin eager inquiry at the Master. Lad had carried this watchdog exploit\nto a point where the next move was hard to figure out. He was glad the\nMaster had arrived, to take charge of the situation. It seemed to call\nfor human, rather than canine, solution. And Lad was profoundly\ninterested as to the sequel. All of which showed as clearly in the\ncollie's whimsically expressive face as ever it could have been set\nforth in print.\n\nBoth men began to talk at once; with lurid earnestness and vast wealth\nof gesture. So did the women.\n\nThere was no need. The Master, already, had caught sight of the\nhalf-spread lunch on the grass. And it was by no means his first or his\ntenth experience with trespassers. He understood. Snapping his fingers,\nto summon Lad to his side, he patted the dog's silken head; and strove\nnot to laugh.\n\n\"And just as we was sitting down, peaceful, to eat, and not harming no\none at all and minding our own business,\" came a fragment of one man's\noration, above the clamor of the others, \"that big dark-sable collie of\nyours came tearing down on us and--\"\n\nThe triple opposition of outcry and complaint blurred the rest of his\nenraged whine. But the Master looked out at him in new interest. The\nman had used the term, \"dark-sable collie\"; which, by the way, was the\ntechnical phrase for Lad's coloring. Not one non-collie-man in a\nthousand would have known the meaning of the term; to say nothing of\nusing it by instinct. The Master stared curiously at the floundering\nand sputtering speaker.\n\n\"Aren't you the manager of the Lochaber Collie Kennels, up at\nBeauville?\" he asked, speaking loud enough to be heard above the\nsubsiding din. \"I think I've seen you at Westminster and at some of the\nlocal shows. Higham is your name, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is,\" returned the kennel man, truculent, but surprised almost\ninto civility. \"And this is my assistant, Mister Rice. And these two\nyoung lady friends of ours are--Say!\" he broke off, furiously,\nremembering his plight and swinging back to rage, as he began to wade\nshoreward. \"We're going to have the law on you, friend! Your collie\ntackled us when we was peaceably-\"\n\n\"When you were peaceably ignoring this trespass sign of mine?\" finished\nthe Master. \"Don't forget that. If you didn't have these girls with\nyou, I'd keep my hands off Lad's collar and let him hold you out in the\nlake till it freezes for the winter. As it is, one of you men can swim\nout for your canoe and tow it in; and then the rest of you can bundle\naboard it and finish your picnic on somebody else's land.\"\n\n\"Well!\" shrilled the wet damsel, striding shoreward like some sloppily\noverdressed Venus rising from the sea. \"Well! I MUST say! Nice\nneighborly, hospitable way to treat poor unfortunate--!\"\n\n\"Trespassers?\" suggested the Master, as she groped for a climax word.\n\"You're right. It is no way to treat a woman who has fallen into the\nlake; trespasser or not. If you and this other young lady care to go up\nto the kitchen, the maids will see that your clothes are dried; and\nthey'll lend you other clothes to go home in. Lad won't hurt you. And\nin this hot weather you're in no danger of catching cold. While you're\ngone, Higham and Rice can get hold of the canoe and right it and bail\nit out. And, by the way, I want one of you two men to clear that litter\nof food and greasy paper off my lawn. Then--\"\n\n\"Into the kitchen!\" snorted the wet maid. \"Into the KITCHEN? I'm a\nlady! I don't go into kitchens. I--\"\n\n\"No?\" queried the Master, trying once more not to laugh. \"Well, my wife\ndoes. So does my mother. I spoke of the kitchen because it's the only\nroom with a fire in it, in this weather. If you'd prefer the barn or--\"\n\n\"I won't step one foot in your house!\" declaimed the girl. \"Nor yet I\ndidn't come here to be insulted. You've gone and spoiled our whole day,\nyou big brute! Boys, go get that canoe! We won't lower ourselves by\nstaying another minute on his rotten land. Afterward, our lawyer'll see\nwhat's the penalty for treating us like this! Hurry up!\"\n\nRice had clumped along shore until he found a dead branch washed up in\na recent rainstorm. Wading back into deeper water he was just able to\nreach the gunwale of the drifting canoe with the forked end of the\nbough and, by careful jockeying, to haul it within hand-grasp.\n\nAided by Higham, he drew the overturned craft to the beach and righted\nit. All the time, both men maintained a half-coherent diatribe, whose\nlanguage waxed hotter and hotter and whose thunderbolts centered about\nthe Master and his dog;--particularly about Lad;--and about the dire\nlegal penalties which were to be inflicted on them.\n\nThe Master, still holding Lad's ruff, stood to one side during the work\nof salvaging the canoe; and while Rice replaced the paddles and\ncushions in it. Only when the two women were helped sputteringly aboard\ndid he interfere.\n\n\"One minute!\" he said. \"I think you've forgotten your lunch. That and\nthe ream or two of newspapers you've strewn around: and a few wooden\ndishes. I--\"\n\n\"I picked up all the lunch that was worth saving,\" grunted Rice. \"Your\nmangy collie trampled the rest of it, when he ran down here at us. I\nwisht it'd had strychnia in it and he'd et it! We'll go eat our dinner\nover to the village. And, before we go, I got this much more to say to\nYOU:--If--\"\n\n\"Before you go,\" interrupted the Master, shifting himself and Lad\nbetween Higham and the canoe, \"before you go, let me remind you that\nyou've left a lot of litter on my clean lawn; and that I asked you to\nclean it up.\"\n\n\"Go clean it up, yourself!\" snapped Rice, from the boat. \"This upstage\ntalk about 'trespassing' makes me sick! As soon as a guy has a\nthree-dollar patch of bum land (with a mortgage eating it up, most\nlikely), he always blats about 'trespassing' whenever decent folks\nhappens to walk on it. Go clean up the papers, yourself! We ain't your\nslaves. You're due to hear a lot from us, later, too. Clean it,\nyourself!\"\n\nThe ladies applauded these stirring proletariat sentiments right\nvigorously. But Higham did not applaud. Rice and the women were in the\ncanoe. Higham had gone back to the picnic site for an overlooked\ncushion. On returning toward the beach, he had found the Master and Lad\nstanding in his way. Loftily, he made as though to skirt them and reach\nthe canoe.\n\n\"WATCH him, Laddie!\" whispered the Master, loosing his hold on the\ndog's ruff.\n\nThis, in the midst of Rice's tirade. Higham stood extremely still. As\nthe others applauded, he began, very fervently, to swear.\n\n\"Higham,\" suggested the Master, \"I've no personal objection to your\nblasphemy. If the women of your party can stand it, I can. But aren't\nyou wasting a good deal of time! These papers have all got to be picked\nup, you know; and the camp nicely policed. Get busy.\"\n\nHigham glowered on him in murderous hate; then at the tensely watching\ndog. Lad's upper lip curled. The man took a tentative step toward the\nbeach. Lad crouched, panther-like; and a low growl parted still further\nhis writhing lips.\n\nHigham was enough of a collie man to foresee the inevitable next move.\nHe stood stock still. The Master put his hand once more on Lad's ruff;\nbut none too tightly. And he nodded toward the clutter of newspapers\nand wooden plates. Higham's language soared spoutingly to high heaven.\nBut he turned back and, with vicious grabs, cleared the lawn of its\nunsightly litter.\n\n\"Take it into the boat with you.\" said the Master. \"That's all.\nGoodbye. See you at the Beauville show.\"\n\nWaiting only for the canoe and its four vociferous occupants to start\nsafely from shore, the Master returned to the house; Lad at his heels;\npursued by a quadruple avalanche of abuse from the damp trespassers.\n\n\"There'll be a comeback of some kind to this, Laddie,\" he told the\ncollie, as they moved on. \"I don't know just what it'll be. But those\ntwo worthy youths didn't look at all lovingly at us. And there's\nnothing else in country life so filthily mean as an evicted trespasser.\nDon't let's say anything to the Mistress about it, Lad. It'd only worry\nher! And--and she'll think I ought to have invited all those\npanhandlers up to the house to get dry. Perhaps she'd be right, too.\nShe generally is.\"\n\nA week later, Lad received a summons that made his heart sink. For he\nknew precisely what it foretold. He was called to the bathroom; where\nawaited him a tub half full of warm water.\n\nNow, baths were no novelty to Lad. But when a bath tub contained\ncertain ingredients from boxes on the dog-closet shelf,--ingredients\nthat fluff the coat and burnish it and make all its hairs stand out\nlike a Circassian Beauty's, that meant but one thing.\n\nIt meant a dog-show was at hand.\n\nAnd Lad loathed dog-shows, as he loathed tramps and castor oil and\nmotorcycles.\n\nAfter a single experience, he had never been taken to one of those\ncanine ordeals known as \"three-or-more-day shows.\" But the Mistress and\nthe Master rejoiced at his triumphs at such local one-day shows as were\nwithin pleasant driving distance of the Place. These exhibitions\nentailed no great strain or danger. Lad's chief objection to them was\nthat he hated to be chirped to and pawed and stared upon by an army of\nstrangers.\n\nSuch a one-day event was the outdoor Charity Dogshow at the Beauville\nCountry Club, forty miles to northeast of the Place; an easy two-hour\ndrive. It was to be a \"specialty show\"; at which the richness and\nvariety of prizes were expected to atone for the lack of A. K. C.\npoints involved.\n\nA premium-list of the show had been mailed to the Place; and one of its\n\"specials\" had caught the Mistress's quick eye and quicker imagination.\nThe special was offered by Angus McGilead, an exiled Scot whose life\nfad was the Collie; and whose chief grievance was that most American\nbreeders did not seem able to produce collies with the unbelievable\nwealth of outer-and-undercoat displayed by the oversea dogs. This\nparticular special was offered in the following terms:\n\nEmbossed Sterling Silver Cup, 9 Inches High (Genuine Antique) For The\nBest-Coated Collie Shown.\n\nNow, Lad's coat was the pride of the Mistress's heart. By daily\nbrushings she kept it in perfect condition and encouraged its luxuriant\ngrowth. When she read of McGilead's eccentric offer, she fell to\nvisualizing the \"embossed sterling silver cup, 9 inches high (genuine\nantique)\" as it would loom up from the hedge of dog-show prizes already\nadorning the living room trophy-shelves.\n\nSummer is the zero hour for collies' coats. Yet, this year, Lad had not\nyet begun to shed his winter raiment; and he was still in full bloom.\nThis fact decided the Mistress. Not one collie in ten would be in\nanything like perfect coat. And the prize cup grew clearer and nearer,\nto her mental vision. Hence the series of special baths and brushings.\nHence, too, Laddie's daily-increasing gloom.\n\nAt eight o'clock on the morning of the show, the Mistress and the\nMaster, with Lad stretched forlornly on the rear seat of the car, set\nforth up the Valley on the forty-mile run to Beauville. On the tonneau\nfloor, in front of Lad, rested a battered suitcase, which held his\ntoilet appurtenances;--brushes, comb, talcum, French chalk, show-leash,\nsponge, crash towel, squeaking rubber doll (this to attract his bored\ninterest in the ring and make him \"show\") and a box of liver cut in\nsmall bits and fried stiff.\n\nLad blinked down at the suitcase in morose disapproval. He hated that\nbag. It spelt \"dogshow\" to him. Even the presence of the delicious\nfried liver and of the mildly dramatic squeaking doll could not atone\nfor the rest of its contents and for all they implied.\n\nAs the car sent the miles slipping behind and as the Mistress and the\nMaster glanced back less and less often for a pat or a cheery word to\ntheir sulking chum, Lad's dislike for that pestilential bag grew\nsharper. True, it held squares of fried liver;--liver whose heavenly\nodor penetrated through the musty leather smell of the suitcase and to\nthe dog's acute senses. Also, it held a doll which exuded thrilling\nsqueaks when gently bitten. But these things, he knew full well, were\ndesigned as show-ring baits; not as free gifts.\n\nNo, the bag was his enemy. And, unlike his few other natural foes, Lad\nhad never been bidden to leave it unmolested. This memory came to him,\nin the midst of his blues. He eyed the loathsome suitcase through\nquizzical half-shut eyes, as it rocked and careened at his feet with\nevery jounce of the car. And into his brain shot the devil of mischief.\n\nBending down his shapely head, he took the handle of the case between\nhis teeth. Then, bracing his little white forepaws on the slippery\nleather seat, he heaved with all the mighty strength of his back and\nshoulders. Under such urgence, the light suitcase swung high in air. A\nsideways toss of the muscular throat, and the suitcase whirled clear of\nthe car door and of the running-board beneath. Then Lad let go; and\nsettled himself back smugly in the seat. The luckless suitcase smote\nthe road dust and rolled into a grassy ditch. The car sped on. Lad, for\nthe moment, was nearly happy. If he were not able to dodge the show\nitself, at least he had gotten rid of the odious thing which held so\nmuch he detested and which was always an inseparable part of the\nordeals he was taken to.\n\nArrived at the country club whose grounds had been fitted for the\ncharity show, Lad was benched in the shade. And there, all the rest of\nthe morning, he remained. For Loder, judge of the collies and Old\nEnglish Sheepdogs and of two other breeds, had missed a train from\nCanada; and had not yet arrived. His various classes were held up,\npending his advent.\n\n\"Loder's a lucky man, at that,\" commented the Toy Breeds judge, with\nwhom the Master chanced to be talking. \"And he'll be still luckier if\nhe misses the whole show. You 'small exhibitors' have no notion of the\nrotten deal handed to a dog-show judge;--though lots of you do more\nthan your share toward making his life a burden. Before the judging\nbegins, some of the exhibitors act as if they wanted to kiss him.\nNothing's too good for him. He wades chin-deep through flattery and\nloving attentions. Then, after the judging is over, he is about as\npopular with those same exhibitors as a typhoid germ. No one can say\nbad enough things about him. He's 'incompetent,' he's 'a\ngrafter,--'he's 'afraid of the big kennels,'--he's 'drunk.' He's any of\nthese things; or all of them put together. Nobody's satisfied.\nEverybody has had a raw deal. Everybody's hammer is out for the poor\nslob of a judge. Well, not everybody's, of course. There are some real\nsportsmen left crawling on the surface of the earth. But the big\nmajority pan him, all the way home; and then some of them roast him in\nprint. The Income Tax man is a popular favorite, compared with a\ndog-show judge.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Then, again,\" pursued the Toy Breeds man, \"he's got to leave his heart\nat home, if he doesn't want it to ache when he has to 'gate' the\nsecond-rate mutts shown by outsiders who never exhibited before and who\nthink their pet dog ought to get every prize because he's so cunning\nand friendly. I hate to--\"\n\nThe Mistress came hurrying up from a careful inspection of the line of\ncollies. Drawing her husband aside, she whispered, excitedly:\n\n\"There's only one other collie here, whose coat can anywhere near equal\nLaddie's. The rest are all in shabby summer coat. Come across and let\nme show him to you. I'm--I'm afraid he has a gorgeous coat. Not that\n_I_ think it's half as good as Lad's,\" she added, loyally, as she\npiloted the Master between the double lines of clamorous dogs.\n\"But--oh, I'm so afraid the judge may think it is! You see, he doesn't\nknow Laddie as we do.\"\n\nShe stopped before a bench whereon lay a pale golden sable collie;\nalmost corn-colored; who boasted a wealth and magnificence of coat that\nmade the Master open his eyes wide.\n\nThe dog was smaller and slighter of frame than was Lad. Nor, in head\nand expression, was he Lad's equal. But his coat was every bit as\nluxuriant. Indeed, there was perhaps a shade more of it than Lad\ncarried.\n\nA collie's coat, as a rule, takes about seven months to grow. Thus,\neach year, it comes into full bloom a little later than on the year\nbefore. And, in course of time, it is prone to reach its climax of\nexcellence in summer. This was the lot of both Lad and the paler-hued\ndog.\n\n\"Lochaber King,\" read the Master, from his catalog. \"H'm! That's\nColonel Osbourne's greatest pup. Remember, we saw him at Westminster?\nIt's nip-and-tuck, between him and Lad; with a little in this dog's\nfavor. Tough luck!\"\n\n\"Oh, this has been just one of those days nobody wants!\" mourned the\nMistress. \"First, our forgetting to bring along Laddie's suitcase,\nthough I could have sworn I saw you lift it aboard,--and then the judge\nnot being here; and now this horrid collie with his wonderful coat!\nWhat next, I wonder?\"\n\nLike a well-staged bit of mechanism, the reply to her rhetorical\nquestion came down to her from heaven. It came in the shape of a\nthunder-roll that began far off and reverberated from mountain to\nmountain; then muttered itself into silence in the more distant hills.\nThe Mistress, like everyone else, looked skyward.\n\nThe hazy blue of the summer noon was paling to dirty gray and black. Up\nfrom the Hudson, a fast-mounting array of dun and flame-shot clouds\nwere butting their bullying way. No weather-prophet was needed to tell\nthese hillcountry folk that they were in for a thunderstorm;--and for\nwhat one kennel-man described as \"a reg'lar ol'  he-one,\" at that.\n\nNow, under right conditions, an open-air dogshow is a thing of beauty\nand of joy. At such places as Tuxedo and one or two others it is a\nsight to be remembered. But in rainy weather,--especially in a\ntumultuous thunderstorm, it has not one redeeming feature.\n\nThe Beauville Show Committee,--like all experts in such matters, had\ntaken this chance into account. Down the aisles of benches and through\nthe questioning and scared groups of exhibitors ran attendants and\nofficials; shouting that the Country Club polo stables and the wide\nspaces under the clubhouse verandas had been fitted up for emergency\nquarters, where the dogs might be housed, dry and safe, until the\npassing of the storm.\n\nUp to the Master hurried a club page-boy.\n\n\"This way, sir!\" he panted. \"I saved a special box stall, in the first\nstable, for your collie.\"\n\n\"YOU saved it?\" queried the puzzled Master, while the Mistress began to\nunfasten Lad's leash. \"How did you happen to do that?\"\n\n\"I was told to, sir,\" answered the boy. \"A--a gentleman told me to,\njust now. One of the of'cers of the club. I don't know his name. He\nshowed me the stall; and he told me to take your dog there.\"\n\n\"That's mighty, decent; whoever did it,\" said the Master, whistling the\nfreed dog to him and setting forth in the boy's wake, toward the\nwelcoming stables. \"I wish you knew his name. I'd like to thank him.\"\n\nThe stable was dim-lit, at best. Now, the gathering storm made it as\ndark as twilight. The box stall to which Lad was led was almost pitch\nblack; its shuttered window being closed. Still, it was shelter.\nLeaving the Master and the Mistress to consign Lad to his new quarters,\nthe boy scuttled of to a harness-room. There, an eagerly-questioning\nman was awaiting him.\n\n\"Yep,\" broke in the boy, through a volley of inquiries. \"I done it, all\nright, all right, Mr. Higham. They're moorin' him in Stall Five, right\nnow. How about those two soft dollars? Hey?\"\n\n\"You earned 'em, O. K.,\" grinned Higham. \"Here you are. Two,--count\n'em, two. And now, chase along, sonny. I'm busy.\"\n\nHe turned to a large bowl in which he had been mixing the contents of\nthree or four bottles. And the boy saw his fingers were fiery red.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" demanded the youngster, in high excitement.\n\"That's blood, ain't it?\"\n\n\"No,\" denied Higham. \"Blood's light red. This is crimson. Remember the\ntime we run in that joke on Daddy Price, by dipping his prize white\nleghorns in crimson dye, just before the Madison Square Garden Poultry\nShow? Well, this is the same stuff.\"\n\n\"Do I remember it?\" snickered the boy. \"He was ragin', for fair.\nCouldn't get it off, to save him. It stayed, that color, on 'em, till\nthey'd shed the last one of last year's crop of feathers. Sure, I\nremember. Why wouldn't I? Didn't I git a dollar for holdin' 'em for\nyou? And another dollar for keepin' my mouth shut? But what are you\nlottin' to do with the stuff, this time? No chickens here;  or--\"\n\n\"Nope,\" assented Higham. \"No chickens here. Hold on, a second!\"\n\nHe stood, musing. Then he spoke.\n\n\"I was going to play a lone hand, on this,\" he said, presently. \"I\ndidn't even dare let Rice in on it. He'd be dead-sure to tell that\ngabby girl he's going to marry. And it'd get all over the country in a\nweek. And that'd lose me my job, if the boss heard of it. I was going\nto play it alone. That's why I left Rice and Willett to put up the dogs\nfor me. But,--I'm blest if I know how I'm to hold him and dye him at\nthe same time. He's as strong as an ox. You--you're a good,\nclose-tongued kid, Harry. You kept your mouth shut about Price's\nchickens. Could you keep it shut,--for another dollar,--about this? If\nyou'll do that, and lend me a hand--How about it?\"\n\n\"What's the main idea?\" asked the boy, much intrigued by the beauty of\nthe dye on Higham's fingers; and squirming with embarrassed\nself-importance at the man's flattering tone. \"I'll help out, all\nright. Only,--\"\n\n\"Here's the notion,\" said Higham, coming out of momentary\nself-communion. \"And if you ever spill it, your mail will be sent to\nyou at the hosp't'l, for a spell. You saw that big dark sable collie I\nhad you steer into Stall Five? It cost me another two dollars to get\nAbrams to let me have the use of that stall. The idea come to me, in a\njolt, first crack of thunder I heard. Well, I'm due to 'get' that dog\nand the mucker who owns him, too. Them and I had a run-in, once; and I\nbeen honing for a chance to square things, ever since. I've seen 'em at\nshows and I've asked folks about 'em, too. He sets more store by that\ndog than he'd set by most humans. He's pleased as Punch, every time the\ncollie hauls down a cup at one of these neighborhood shows. Well, that\ndog ain't going to be fit to go to another show, for a year. He ain't\ngoing to be fit to look at, for that long. He's going to be a laughing\nstock. His owners won't brag any more about him, neither. They'll be\nglad enough to keep him out of sight.\"\n\nThe boy, listening with ever-widening eyes, chanced to shift his gaze\nto the big bowl of new-mixed dye. And a light broke on him.\n\n\"You--you're aimin' to soak him with that stuff?\" he whispered, in awe\nat such combined courage and genius.\n\n\"Uh-uh,\" assented Higham. \"I don't know what color the crimson stuff\nwill turn the dark part of his coat. But whatever color it is, it'll be\nas funny as a box of three-tailed snakes. I've put a glass of ammonia\ninto the dye, to make it 'set' quicker. It--\"\n\n\"Gee, but you're a wonder!\" sighed the worshiping boy. \"D'ye s'pose\nI'll ever git to be as smart as you are?\"\n\n\"It all depends on how you make use of your brains,\" returned Higham,\ncomplacently. \"But I was some smarter than you to begin with. I--\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\nHigham went on, more briskly:\n\n\"I've got this bag to put over his head when I open the stall door.\nThat'll put him out of the biting business, till it's peeled away from\nhis jaws, after he's got a real good rubbing. But he'll likely wriggle,\na lot. And I'll need you to sit on his head. Likewise to carry this\nbowl and the sponge, while I'm opening the door and getting the bag\nover his head. Are you game?\"\n\n\"I sure am!\" breathed the enraptured boy.\n\n\"Come 'long, then. The stuff's ready; and we don't want to waste any\ntime. Go ahead and see if there's anyone in that end of the stable.\"\nTwo minutes later, the pair groped their way through the dense gloom,\nto Stall Five. They walked with exaggerated care; though the roar of\nthe storm would have deadened the sound of a cavalry charge. Handing\nover the bowl and sponge to his assistant, Higham produced from under\nhis coat a thick burlap bag with a drawstring at its neck. Then, he\nopened the door of the box stall, a few inches and stared in.\n\nBy straining his eyes, he could just see the vague outline of the big\ncollie. The dog arose from a bundle of straw, stretched himself fore\nand aft, and walked gravely forward to welcome the visitors who were so\nkindly easing his loneliness. He was barely visible, in the dimness.\n\nBut there was light enough for Higham's purpose. With practiced hand,\nhe shoved the bag over the beautiful silken head, as the collie stepped\nmajestically toward him. Then, deftly, he threw the indignant and\nstruggling dog to the floor, and bade the boy come in; and shut the\ngate behind him.\n\nWith the passing of another hour, the rain ceased; and a glory of\nafternoon sunlight bathed the freshened world. At about the same time,\nthe belated collie judge arrived at the clubhouse. Word was sent forth\nthat all dogs were to be returned to their benches and that the judging\nof the collies and of certain other breeds would begin at once.\n\nThere was a general hustle and confusion, as exhibitors led forth their\ndogs from shelter; benching them and plying brush and chalk and towel\nin frantic haste.\n\nHigham summoned Rice and another of the kennel men and bade them bring\nforth the Lochaber dogs. Instead of helping them with his task, Higham\nhimself ran to the top of the clubhouse steps, from which he could\nsurvey not only the benches but also the stables and the lawn between.\nThere, quivering with hard-held excitement, he stood; with the air of\none who has chosen a grandstand seat for some thrilling event. He wore\na pair of thick gloves. As he had discarded the linen duster which he\nhad worn during the dyeing process, there was no betraying splash of\ncolor on his severely correct garb.\n\nPeople were trooping out from the shelter of the clubhouse. With half\nan eye, Higham observed these; chuckling at thought of the\neverincreasing number of spectators to his rare comedy. Of a sudden,\nthe chuckle changed to a gasp.\n\nOut through the doorway, and onto the veranda, strolled Colonel\nOsbourne, owner of the Lochaber Collie Kennels. With him walked the\nMistress and the Master.\n\nAt the Mistress's side paced Lad.\n\n\"It was so careless of us to leave the suitcase at home!\" the Mistress\nwas saying. \"I don't know how we could have groomed him, Colonel, if\nyou hadn't come to our rescue by turning that kit bag's heaven-sent\ncontents over to us. Besides, it gave us the excuse to bring Laddie up\ninto the house; instead of leaving him all alone in that black stall.\nHe hates thunderstorms, and--\"\n\nA yell, from somewhere, interrupted her. The yell was caught up. It\nmerged into a multiple roar of inextinguishable laughter. The Mistress\nsaw a hundred faces all turned in one direction, The faces were\nconvulsed with mirth. A hundred derisively wondering fingers were\npointing. She ran to the veranda rail and looked down.\n\nAcross the patch of greensward, from the stables, a man and a dog were\nadvancing. The man was shaking his fist at the world at large and\nfairly dancing with rage.\n\nBut it was the dog, and not he, that caused the Homeric gusts of\nmerriment and the gobbling chorus of amazed questions. The dog was a\ncollie; noble of aspect, massive of coat.\n\nBut that same coat vied with the setting sun in garish brilliancy of\nhue. Never since the birth of time, had such a beast been seen by\nmortals. From the tip of his aristocratic nose to the plume of his\nsweeping tail, the collie was one blazingly vivid mass of crimson! He\nfairly irradiated flaring red lights. His coat was wet and it hung\nstickily to his lean sides, as if he had just come from a swim. And it\nwas tinted like a chromo of a prairie fire.\n\nFollowing more slowly to the veranda's edge, Colonel Osbourne had begun\na reply to the Mistress's half-finished speech of gratitude for his\nhospitality.\n\n\"I was only too glad to be of service,\" said he. \"That's a grand dog\nyou have. It was a real pleasure to help in his grooming. Besides, I\nprofited by it. You see, my Lochaber King was quartered in a muddy\ncorner under the veranda. So I took the liberty of telling my man,\nRice, to put him in that comfortable big stall of Lad's. I am the chief\ngainer by the--\"\n\nHis courtly speech became a gurgle of horror. For, his eyes fell on the\nragingly advancing Rice. And, by deduction, he recognized the crimson\nmonstrosity at Rice's heels as his beloved Lochaber King.\n\nBefore the apoplectic Colonel could speak, Lad created a diversion on\nhis own account. He had been sniffing the air, reminiscently, for a few\nseconds. Now, his eyes verified what his nostrils had told him. A\npallidly glaring and shaking man, leaning against the veranda rail for\nsupport, had an oddly familiar scent and appearance to Laddie.\n\nThe collie stepped forward to investigate. The nerve-smashed Higham saw\nhim coming; and thrust out one gloved hand in frightened rebuff.\n\nThe flicking gesture was unpleasantly like a blow. As the menacing hand\nslapped toward his jaws, Lad caught at it, in wary self-defense.\n\nHe recalled this man, now. He remembered he had been bidden to \"watch\"\nhim. He did not spring at his assailant. But a warning snap answered\nthe frenzied thrust of the hand. His teeth closed lightly on the\nglove-fingers, just as Higham, in fear, jerked back his arm.\n\nThe loose glove came away in the dog's mouth.\n\nColonel Osbourne, wheeling about to demand some explanation of his\nkennel-manager, beheld a bare hand as vividly crimson as Lochaber\nKing's ruined coat.\n\n\"Laddie,\" observed the Mistress, that evening, as she placed on the top\ntrophy-shelf an embossed silver cup, antique, and nine inches high, and\nstood back pride fully, to note the effect. \"Laddie, I know--I just\nKNOW,--you'd have won it, even if poor Lochaber King had competed.\nBut,--oh, I wish I could make head or tail of any of the things that\nhave happened, today! How do you suppose it all started, anyhow, dear?\"\nshe asked, turning to her husband for help in the riddle.\n\n\"I'd be willing to bet a year's pay it 'all started' about six feet\nfrom shore in this lake,\" responded the Master, \"and about a fortnight\nago.\"\n\nBut he spoke it in the depths of his own guiltily exultant heart.\nOutwardly, he merely grinned; and said with vacuous conviction:\n\n\"Laddie, you're a grand dog. And,--if you didn't win that cup from\nLochaber King in one way, you certainly won it in another!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. Hero-Stuff\n\nLife was monstrous pleasant, for Lad, at the Place. And never, except\nin early puppyhood, was he lonely. Never until the Master was so\nfoolish as to decide in his own shallow human mind that the big collie\nwould be happier with another collie for comrade and mate.\n\nAfter that, loneliness more than once crept into Laddie's serene life;\nand into the dark sorrowful eyes behind which lurked a soul. For, until\none has known and relied on the companionship of one's kind, there can\nbe no loneliness.\n\nThe Master made another blunder--this one on his own account and on the\nMistress's,--when he bought a second collie, to share Lad's realm of\nforest and lawn and lake. For, it is always a mistake to own two dogs\nat a time. A single dog is one's chum and guard and worshiper. If he be\nrightly treated and talked to and taught, he becomes all-but human.\nBecause he is forced to rely solely on humans, for everything. And his\nmind and heart respond to this. There is no divided allegiance.\n\nOne dog in a home is worth ten times as much to his owners, in every\nway, as are two or more dogs. Especially if the one dog be such a\ncollie as Sunnybank Lad. This the Master was due to discover.\n\nOn a sloppy and drippy and muggy afternoon, late in October,--one of\nthose days nobody wants,--the Master came home from town; his fall\novercoat showing a decided list to starboard in the shape of an\negregiously bulged side-pocket.\n\nThe Mistress and Lad, as ever, came forth to greet the returning man.\nLad, with the gayly trumpeting bark which always he reserved for the\nMistress or the Master after an absence of any length, cavorted\nrapturously up to his deity. But, midway in his welcoming advance, he\nchecked himself; sniffing the sodden October air, and seeking to locate\na new and highly interesting scent which had just assailed his\nsensitive nostrils.\n\nThe Master put an end to the mystery, forthwith, by reaching deep into\nhis overcoat's swollen pocket and fishing out a grayish golden ball of\nsquirming fluff.\n\nThis handful of liveliness he set gingerly on the veranda floor; where\nit revealed itself as an eight-weeks old collie pup.\n\n\"Her name is 'Lady,'\" expounded the Master, as he and the Mistress\ngazed interestedly down upon the sprawling and wiggling puppy. \"Her\npedigree reads like a page in Burke's Peerage. She--\"\n\nHe paused. For Lad had moved forward to where the infant collie was\ntrying valiantly to walk on the slippery boards. The big dog regarded\nthe puppy; his head on one side, his tulip ears cocked; his deep-set\neyes friendily curious. This was Lad's first experience with one of the\nyoung of his species. And he was a bit puzzled; albeit vastly\ninterested.\n\nExperimentally, he laid one of his tiny white forepaws lightly on the\nmite's fuzzy shoulder. Instantly, the puppy growled a falsetto warning\nto him to keep his distance. Lad's plumed tail began to wag at this\nsign of spirit in the pigmy. And, with his curved pink ribbon of\ntongue, he essayed to lick the shivering Lady. A second growl rewarded\nthis attention. And Lady sought to avoid further contact with the\nshaggy giant, by scrambling at top speed to the edge of the veranda.\n\nShe miscalculated the distance or else her nearsighted baby eyes failed\nto take account of the four-foot drop to the gravel drive below. Too\nlate, she tried to check her awkward rush. And, for a moment, her fat\nlittle body swayed perilously on the brink.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were too far away to catch her in time to\nprevent a fall which might well have entailed a broken rib or a\nwrenched shoulder. But Lad was nearer. Also, he moved faster.\n\nWith the speed of lightning, he made a dive for the tumbling Lady. As\ntenderly as if he were picking up a ball of needles, he caught her by\nthe scruff of the neck, lifting her in the air and depositing her at\nthe Mistress's feet.\n\nThe puppy repaid this life-saving exploit by growling still more\nwrathfully and by snapping in helpless menace at the big dog's nose.\nBut Lad was in no wise offended. Deaf to the praise of the Mistress,--a\npraise which ordinarily threw him into transports of embarrassed\ndelight,--he stood over the rescued pup; every inch of his magnificent\nbody vibrant with homage and protectiveness.\n\nFrom that hour, Lad was the adoring slave of Lady.\n\nHe watched over her, in her increasingly active rambles about the\nPlace. Always, on the advent of doubtful strangers, he interposed his\nown furry bulk between her and possible kidnaping. He stood beside her\nas she lapped her bread-and-milk or as she chewed laboriously at her\nfragment of dog-biscuit.\n\nAt such times, he proved himself the mortal foe of Peter Grimm, the\nMistress's temperamental gray kitten, with whom he was ordinarily on\nvery comfortable terms. Peter Grimm was the one creature on the Place\nwhom Lady feared. On the day after her arrival, she essayed to worry\nthe haughty catkin. And, a second later, the puppy was nursing a brace\nof deep red scratches at the tip of her inquiring black nostrils.\n\nThereafter, she gave Peter Grimm a wide berth. And the cat was wont to\ntake advantage of this dread by making forays on Lady's supper dish.\nBut, ever, Lad would swoop down upon the marauder, as Lady cowered\nwhimperingly back on her haunches; and would harry the indignant cat up\nthe nearest tree; herding her there until Lady had licked the dish\nclean.\n\nLad went further, in his fealty to the puppy. Sacrificing his own regal\ndignity, he would romp with her, at times when it would have been far\nmore comfortable to drowse. He bore, without murmur, her growling\nassaults on his food; amusedly standing aside while she annexed his\nsupper's choicest bits.\n\nHe endured, too, her occasional flurries of hot temper; and made no\nprotest when Lady chose to wreak some grievance against life by flying\nat him with bristling ruff and jaws asnarl. Her keen little milk teeth\nhurt like the mischief, when they dug into his ears or his paws, in one\nof these rage-gusts. But he did not resent the pain or the indignity by\nso much as drawing back out of harm's way. And, afterward, when quick\nrepentance replaced anger and she strove to make friends with him\nagain, Lad was inordinately happy.\n\nTo both the Mistress and the Master, from the very outset, it was plain\nthat Lady was not in any way such a dog as their beloved Lad. She was\nas temperamental as Peter Grimm himself. She had hair-trigger nerves, a\nswirlingly uncertain temper that was scarce atoned for by her charm and\nlovableness; and she lacked Lad's stanchness and elusive semi-human\nquality. The two were as different in nature as it is possible for a\ncouple of well-brought-up thoroughbred collies to be. And the humans'\nhearts did not go out to Lady as to Lad. Still, she was an ideal pet,\nin many ways. And, Lad's utter devotion to her was a full set of\ncredentials, by itself.\n\nAutumn froze into winter. The trees turned into naked black ghosts; or,\nrather, into many-stringed harps whereon the northwest gales\nalternately shrieked and roared. The fire-blue lake was a sheet of\nleaden ice, twenty inches thick. The fields showed sere and grayly\nlifeless in the patches between sodden snow-swathes. Nature had flown\nsouth, with the birds; leaving the northern world a lifeless and empty\nhusk, as deserted as last summer's robin-nests.\n\nLady, in these drear months of a dead world, changed as rapidly as had\nthe smiling Place. From a shapeless gray-gold fuzzy baby, she grew lank\nand leggy. The indeterminate fuzz was buried under a shimmering\ngold-and-white coat of much beauty. The muskrat face lengthened and\ngrew delicately graceful, with its long muzzle and exquisite profile.\n\nLady was emerging from clownish puppyhood into the charm of youth. By\nthe time the first anemones carried God's message of spring through the\nforests' lingering snow-pall, she had lost her adolescent gawkiness and\nwas a slenderly beautiful young collie; small and light of bone, as she\nremained to the day of her death, but with a slimness which carried\nwith it a hint of lithe power and speed and endurance.\n\nIt was in the early spring that the Master promoted Lady from her\nwinter sleeping-quarters in the tool-house; and began to let her spend\nmore and more time indoors.\n\nLady had all the promise of becoming a perfect housedog. Fastidious,\nquick to learn, she adapted herself almost at once to indoor life. And\nLad was overjoyed at her admission to the domain where until now he had\nruled alone. Personally, and with the gravity of an old-world host, he\nconducted her from room to room. He even offered her a snoozing-place\nin his cherished \"cave,\" under the piano, in the music room the spot of\nall others dearest to him.\n\nBut it was dim and cheerless, under the piano; or so Lady seemed to\nthink. And she would not go there for an instant. She preferred the\ndisreputable grizzly-bear rug in front of the living room hearth. And,\ntemporarily deserting his loved cave, Lad used to lie on this rug at\nher side; well content when she edged him off its downy center and onto\nthe bumpy edges.\n\nAll winter, Lady's sleeping quarters had been the tool-house in the\nback garden, behind the stables. Here, on a sweet-smelling (and\nflea-averting) bed of cedar shavings, she had been comfortable and\nwholly satisfied. But, at once, on her promotion, she appeared to look\nupon the once-homelike tool-house as a newly rich daylaborer might\nregard the tumbledown shack where he had spent the days of his poverty.\n\nShe avoided the tool-house; and even made wide detours to avoid passing\nclose to it. There is no more thoroughgoing snob, in certain ways, than\na high-bred dog. And, to Lady, the tool-house evidently represented a\nhumiliating phase of her outlived past.\n\nYet, she was foredoomed to go back to the loathed abode. And her return\nbefell in this way:\n\nIn the Master's study was something which Lady considered the most\nenthrallingly wonderful object on earth. This was a stuffed American\neagle; mounted, rampant and with outflung wings, on a papier-mache\nstump.\n\nWhy the eagle should have fascinated Lady more than did the\nleopard-or-bear rugs or other chase-trophies, in the various downstairs\nrooms, only Lady herself could have told. But she could not keep her\neyes off of it. Tiptoeing to the study door, she used to stand for half\nan hour at a time staring at the giant bird.\n\nOnce, in a moment of audacity, she made a playful little rush at it.\nBefore the Master could intervene, Lad had dashed between her and the\nsacred trophy; and had shouldered her gently but with much firmness out\nof the room; disregarding her little swirl of temper at the\ninterference.\n\nThe Master called her back into the study. Taking her up to the eagle,\nhe pointed at it, and said, with slow emphasis:\n\n\"Lady! Let it ALONE! Let--it--ALONE!\"\n\nShe understood. For, from babyhood, she had learned, by daily practice,\nto understand and interpret the human voice. Politely, she backed away\nfrom the alluring bird. Snarling slightly at Lad, as she passed him in\nthe doorway, she stalked out of the room and went out on the veranda to\nsulk.\n\n\"I'm glad I happened to be here when she went for the eagle,\" said the\nMaster, at lunch that day. \"If I hadn't, she might have tackled it\nsometime, when nobody was around. And a good lively collie pup could\nput that bit of taxidermy out of commission in less than five seconds.\nShe knows, now, she mustn't touch it.\"\n\nHe spoke smugly; his lore on the subject being bounded by his\nexperiences in teaching Lad the simple Law of the Place. Lad was one of\nthe rare dogs to whom a single command or prohibition was enough to fix\na lesson in his uncannily wise brain for life. Lady was not. As the\nMaster soon had occasion to learn.\n\nLate one afternoon, a week afterward, the Mistress had set forth on a\nround of neighborhood calls. She had gone in the car; and had taken Lad\nalong. The Master, being busy and abhorring calls, had stayed at home.\nHe was at work in his study; and Lady was drowsing in the cool lower\nhall.\n\nA few minutes before the Mistress was due to return for dinner, a whiff\nof acrid smoke was wafted to the man's nostrils.\n\nNow, to every dweller in the country, there is one all-present peril;\nnamely, fire. And, the fear of this is always lurking worriedly in the\nback of a rural householder's brain. A vagrant breath of smoke, in the\nnight, is more potent to banish sleep and to start such a man to\ninvestigating his house and grounds than would be any and every other\nalarm known to mortals.\n\nEven now, in broad daylight, the faint reek was enough to bring the\nMaster's mind back to earth and the Master's body to its feet.\nSniffing, he went out to find the cause of the smell. The chimneys and\nthe roof and the windows of the house showing no sign of smoke, he\nexplored farther; and presently located the odor's origin in a small\nbrush-fire at some distance behind the stables. Two of the men were\nraking pruned vine-suckers and leaves onto the blaze. The wind set away\nfrom the house and stables. There was nothing to worry over. Ashamed of\nhis own fussiness, the Master went back to his work.\n\nAs he passed the open study window, on his way indoors, a motion inside\nmade him stop. He was just in time to see Lady trot into the room,\ncrouch playfully, and then spring full at the stuffed eagle.\n\nHis shout deflected the young dog's leap, and kept her merrily\noutstretched jaws from closing on the bird. As it was, the impact\nknocked the eagle and the papier-mache stump to the floor; with much\nclatter and dust.\n\nThe Master vaulted in through the window; arriving on the study floor\nalmost as soon as did the overthrown bird. Lady was slinking out into\nthe hall; crestfallen and scared. The Master collared her and brought\nher back to the scene of her mischief.\n\nThe collie had disobeyed him. Flagrantly she had sinned in assailing\nthe bird; after his injunction of \"Let it alone!\" There could be no\ndoubt, from her wriggling aspect of guilt, that she knew she was doing\nwrong. Worse, she had taken sneaky advantage of his absence in order to\nspring at the eagle. And disgust warred with the Master's normal\nindignation.\n\nSpeaking as quietly as he could bring himself to speak, he told Lady\nwhat she had done and what a rotten thing it had been. As he talked to\nthe utterly crestfallen pup, he was ransacking a drawer of his desk in\nsearch of a dogwhip he had put there long ago and had never had\noccasion to use.\n\nPresently, he found it. Pointing to the overthrown trophy, he brought\nthe lash down across the shrinking collie's loins. He did not strike\nhard. But he struck half a dozen times; and with glum knowledge that it\nwas the only course to take.\n\nNever before in her eight foolish months of life, had Lady known the\nmeaning of a blow. While the whip-slashes were too light to do more\nthan sting her well-mattressed back, yet the humiliation of them seared\ndeep into her sensitive nature. No sound did she utter. But she cowered\nflat to the floor; and trembled as if in a hard chill.\n\nThe whipping was over, in a few seconds. Again the Master explained to\nher what it had been inflicted for. Then, calling her to follow, he led\nthe way out of doors and toward the stables. Stomach to earth, the\nshamed and miserable Lady writhed along, close at his heels.\n\nThe Master passed the stables and walked toward the brush fire, where\nthe two men were still at work. But he did not go within a hundred feet\nof the fire. Turning, after he had left the stables behind him, he made\nfor the tool-house.\n\nLady saw whither he was bound. She ceased to follow. Wheeling about,\nshe trotted stealthily back toward the stables. Reaching the tool-house\ndoor, the Master opened it and whistled to the unhappy young collie.\nLady was nowhere in sight. At a second summons, she appeared from\naround the corner of the stables; moving close to the ground, and with\nmany wriggles of protest. Twice, she stopped; and looked appealingly at\nthe man.\n\nThe Master hardened his soul against the prettily pathetic appeal in\nher eyes and actions; and called her to him again. His own momentary\nanger against the luckless youngster was gone,--the more so since the\neagle had not been damaged by its fall,--but he knew it was needful to\nimpress strongly on Lady the fact of her punishment. This for her own\nsake as much as for his; since a housedog is worthless until it learns\nthat each and every indoor object must be respected and held sacred\nfrom mutilation.\n\nWherefore, he was minded to spare Lady from any future punishment by\nmaking this present lesson sink deep into her brain. Disregarding her\nmanifest aversion for the tool-house, he motioned her into it and shut\nthe door behind her.\n\n\"You'll stay there, till morning,\" he told her, as he closed the window\nand glanced in at the forlorn little wisp of fur and misery. \"You'll be\ncomfortable. And the open spaces under the roof will give you all the\nair you want. I don't dare leave this window open, for fear you might\nbe able to jump out. You've had your supper. And there's a pan of fresh\nwater in there. You'll be no worse off there than you were all winter.\nA night in jail may teach you to be a decent, house-broke dog; and not\na mutt.\"\n\nAs he was on the way back to his study, in the sunset, the car came\ndown the drive, bearing the Mistress. Lad was seated in solemn joy on\nthe front seat, at her side. The big collie loved motoring. And, as a\nrule, he was relegated to the back seat. But when the Mistress went out\nalone, his was the tremendously-enjoyed privilege of sitting in front,\nbeside her.\n\n\"I had to lick Lady,\" reported the Master, shamefacedly, as he helped\nhis wife from the car. \"She went for the eagle in my study. You\nremember how I scolded her for that, last week, don't you? Well, that's\nall the good it did. And I had to whip her. I hated to. I'm glad you\nweren't here to look unhappy about it. Then I shut her up for the night\nin the tool-house. She--\"\n\nHe broke off, to look at Lad.\n\nAs the collie had jumped down from the car and had started toward the\nhouse, he had struck Lady's trail; and he had followed it. It had led\nhim to the tool-house. Finding Lady was locked inside and unhappy, he\nhad come galloping back to the Master.\n\nStanding in front of the man, and whining softly, he was scanning the\nfaces of his two deities with troubled eagerness. Evidently, he\nconsidered that Lady had been locked in by mistake; and he was pleading\nfor her release. As these humans did not seem to catch the idea his\neyes and expression conveyed, he trotted a few steps toward the\ntool-house and then paused to look invitingly back at them.\n\nTwice he did this. Then, coming up to the Master, he caught the\nlatter's coat-hem lightly between his teeth and tugged on it as he\nbacked toward the tool-house.\n\n\"No, old friend,\" said the Master, petting the silken head so\nappealingly upraised to him. \"I know what you're getting at. But I\ncan't let her out. Tomorrow morning. Not till then. Come on up to\ndinner.\"\n\nUnwillingly and with wistful backward looks, Lad followed the Mistress\nand the Master to the house and into the dining room and to his wonted\nplace on the floor at the Master's left side. But, more than once\nduring the meal, the man caught the collie's eyes fixed on him in\nworried supplication; and was hard put to it not to grant the plea\nwhich fairly clamored in his chum's mute gaze.\n\nAfter dinner, when the Mistress and the Master set off on their usual\nevening walk, Lad was not on hand to accompany them. As a rule, he was\nall around them and in front and behind, in a series of gay rushes, as\nthey started on these walks. But not until the Master called him,\ntonight, did he appear. And then he came up dolorously from the\ntool-house.\n\nLad did not understand, at all, what was wrong. He knew only that Lady\nhad been shut up in a place she detested and that she was horribly\nunhappy and that the Master would not let her out. It perplexed him;\nand it made him increasingly wretched. Not only did he miss his\nplayfully capricious young mate, but her unhappiness made him heartsick.\n\nVainly, he tried to plead with the Master for her release, as the walk\nbegan; and again at its end.\n\nThere were such a lot of things in the world that even the cleverest\ncollie could not make head or tail of! And most of these things were\nsad.\n\nThat night, when the house was shut, Lad crept as usual into his cave\nunder the piano. And he lay down with a sigh, his great head between\nhis two absurdly small white forepaws. As a rule, before going to sleep\nfor the night, Lad used to spend much time in licking those same snowy\nforepaws into shining cleanliness. The paws were his one gross vanity;\nand he wasted more than an hour a day in keeping them spotlessly white.\nBut tonight he was too depressed to think of anything but the\nwhimpering little dog imprisoned down in the tool-house.\n\nAfter a while, he fell asleep.\n\nA true watchdog sleeps with all his senses or the very edge of\nwakefulness. And when he wakens, he does not waken as do we\nhumans;--yawningly, dazedly, drunk with slumber. At one moment he is\nsound asleep. At the next he is broad awake; with every faculty alert.\n\nSo ever it was, with Lad. So it was with him, this night. An hour\nbefore dawn, he woke with sharp suddenness; and at once he was on his\nfeet; tense, on guard. He did not know what had roused him. Yet, now\nthat he was awake, two of his senses recorded something which banished\nfrom him all thought of further sleep.\n\nTo his ears came a far-off muffled wail;--a wail which held more than\nunhappiness;--a wail which vibrated with real terror. And he knew the\nvoice for Lady's.\n\nTo his sensitive nostrils, through the intervening distance and the\nobstructing walls and windows, drifted a faint reek of smoke.\n\nNow, the smoke-smell, by itself, meant nothing whatever to Lad. All\nevening a trace of it had hung in the air; from the brush fire. And, in\nany case, this whiff was too slight to have emanated from the house or\nfrom any spot near the house. Yet, taken together with Lady's cry of\nfear--\n\nLad crossed to the front door, and scratched imperiously at it. The\nlocked door did not yield to his push. Too sensible to keep on at a\nportal he could not open, he ran upstairs, to the closed door of the\nMaster's room. There, again he scratched; this time harder and more\nloudly. Twice and thrice he scratched; whining under his breath.\n\nAt last the deep-slumbering Master heard him. Rousing himself, and\nstill three-quarters asleep, he heard not only the scratching and the\nwhimper but, in the distance, Lady's wail of fear. And, sleep-drugged,\nhe mumbled:\n\n\"Shut up, Laddie!--I hear her.--Let her howl.--If she's lonely, down\nthere, she'll--she'll remember the lesson--all the better. Go\ndownstairs and--be quiet!\"\n\nHe fell sound asleep again. Obedient to the slumbrous mandate, Lad\nturned and pattered mournfully away. But, he was not content to return\nto his own nap, with that terror-cry of Lady's echoing in his ears. And\nhe made a second attempt to get out.\n\nAt each side of the piano, in the music room, was a long French window.\nOften, by day, Lad used to pass in or out of these door-like windows.\nHe knew that they, as well as the doors, were a recognized means of\nexit. Now, with eagerly scratching paw, he pushed at the nearest of\nthem.\n\nThe house was but carelessly locked at night. For Lad's presence\ndownstairs was a better burglar-preventive than the best bolts ever\nforged. Tired and drowsy, the Master, this night, had neglected to bar\nthe French windows.\n\nThe window gave, at Lad's vehement scratch; and swung outward on its\nhinges. A second later, the big dog was running at top speed toward the\ntool-house.\n\nNow, the ways of the most insignificant brushfire are beyond the exact\nwisdom of man. Especially in droughty weather. When they knocked off\nwork for the day, the two laborers had gone back to the blaze beyond\nthe tool-house and conscientiously had scattered and stamped on its\nlast visible remnants. The Master, too, coming home from his evening\nwalk, had glanced toward the back garden and had seen no telltale spark\nto hint at life in the trampled fire.\n\nNevertheless, a scrap of ember, hidden from the men's gaze beneath a\nhandful of dead leaves had refused to perish with its comrade-sparks.\nAnd, in the course of five hours, an industrious little flicker had\nignited other bits of brush and of dried leafage and last year's weed\nstumps. The wind was in the north. And it had guided the course of the\ncrawling thread of red. The advancing line had thrown out tendrils of\nscarlet, as it went.\n\nMost of these had died, in the plowed ground. One had not. It had crept\non, half-extinguished at times and again snapping merrily, until it had\nreached the tool-house. The shed-like room stood on low joists, with a\nclear space ten inches high between its flimsy board floor and the\nground. And, in this space, the leaves of the preceding autumn had\ndrifted in windrows. The persevering spark did the rest.\n\nLady woke from a fitful doze, to find herself choking from smoke. The\nboards of the floor were too hot for endurance. Between their cracks\nthin wavery slices of smoke were pouring upward into the room. The\nleaves had begun to ignite the floor-boards and the lower part of the\nramshackle building's thin walls.\n\nWhile the pain and humiliation of her whipping had not been able to\nwring a sound from the young thoroughbred, yet fright of this sort was\nafar different thing. Howling with panic terror, she dashed about the\nsmall enclosure, clawing frantically at door and scantling. Once or\ntwice she made half-hearted effort to spring up at the closed window.\nBut, from lack of running-space as well as from lack of nerve to make\nthe high leap, she failed.\n\nAcross the lawn and door-yard and around the end of the stables\nthundered Lad. With the speed of a charging bull he came on. Before he\nreached the burning shack, he knew more of his mate's plight and peril\nthan any human could have known.\n\nAround the small building he whirled, so close to it that the flames at\nits base seared his mighty coat and blistered and blackened his white\npaws.\n\nThen, running back a yard or so, he flung his eighty-pound weight\ncrashingly at the fastened door. The door, as it chanced, was well-nigh\nthe only solid portion of the shack. And it held firm, under an impact\nthat bruised the flying dog and which knocked him breathless to the\nfire-streaked ground.\n\nAt sound of her mate's approach, Lady had ceased wailing. Lad could\nhear her terrified whimpers as she danced frantically about on the\nred-hot boards. And the knowledge of her torture drove him momentarily\ninsane.\n\nStaggering up from his fall, he flung his splendid head back and, with\nmuzzle to the clouded skies, he tore to shreds the solemn silences of\nthe spring night with a wolf-howl; hideous in its savage grief,\ndeafeningly loud.\n\nAs though the awesome yell had cleared his brain, he sprang to his feet\namid the stinging embers; steady, alert, calm; with no hint of despair\nor of surrender.\n\nHis smarting eyes fixed themselves on the single dusty window of the\ntool-house. Its sill was a full five feet above ground. Its four small\npanes were separated by a wide old-fashioned cross-piece of hardwood\nand putty. The putty, from age, was as solid as cement. The whole\nwindow was a bare sixteen by twenty inches.\n\nLad ran back, once more, a few feet; his gaze fixed appraisingly on the\nwindow and measuring his distance with the sureness of a sharpshooter.\n\nThe big collie had made up his mind. His plan was formed. And as he was\nall-wise, with the eerie wisdom of the highest type of collie, there\ncan be scant doubt he knew just what that plan entailed.\n\nIt was suicide. But, oh, it was a glorious suicide! Compared to it the\nlove-sacrifices of a host of Antonys and Abelards and Romeos are but\npetty things. Indeed, its nearest approach in real life was perhaps\nMoore's idiotically beautiful boast:\n\n  Through the fiery furnace your steps I'll pursue;\n  To find you and save you:--or perish there, too!\n\nThe great dog gathered himself for the insane hero-deed. His shaggy\nbody whizzed across the scarlet pattern of embers; then shot into the\nair. Straight as a flung spear he flew; hurtling through the\nflame-fringed billows of smoke.\n\nAgainst the shut window he crashed, with the speed of a catapult.\nAgainst it he crashed; and clean through it, into the hell of smoke and\nfire and strangulation inside the shack.\n\nHis head had smashed the strong cross-piece of wood and dried putty and\nhad crumpled it like so much wet paper. His giant shoulders had ripped\nthe window-frame clean of its screws. Into the burning room spun Lad,\namid a hail of broken glass and splintered wood.\n\nTo the fire-eaten floor he was hurled, close to his cowering and\nwhimpering mate. He reeled to his feet, and stood there, shoulder to\nshoulder with Lady. His work was done.\n\nAnd, yet, it was not in Sunnybank Lad's nature to be such a fool as is\nthe usual melodrama hero. True, he had come to share Lady's fate, if he\ncould not rescue her. Yet, he would not submit tamely to death, until\nevery resource had been tried.\n\nHe glanced at the door. Already he had found by harsh experience that\nhis strength availed nothing in the battering down of those strong\npanels. And he peered up, through the swirling red smoke, toward the\noblong of window, whereby he had made his tumultuous entrance to the\ndeath-trap.\n\nAgain, he must have known how hopeless of achievement was the feat he\nwas about to try. But, as ever, mere obstacles were not permitted to\nstand in Lad's way.\n\nWheeling, he seized Lady by the nape of the neck. With a mighty heave,\nhe swung her clear of the hot floor. Gathering all his fierce strength\ninto one sublime effort, he sprang upward toward the window; his mate\nhanging from his iron jaws.\n\nYes, it was a ridiculous thing to attempt. No dog, with thrice Lad's\nmuscular strength, could have accomplished the impossibility of\nspringing out through that high, narrow window, carrying a weight of\nfifty pounds between his teeth.\n\nLad's leap did not carry him half the distance he had aimed for. Back\nto the floor he fell, Lady with him.\n\nMaddened by pain and by choking and by stark terror, Lady had not the\nwit to realize what Lad was attempting. All she knew was that he had\nseized her roughly by the neck, and had leaped in air with her; and had\nthen brought her bangingly down upon the torturing hot boards. And her\npanic was augmented by delirious rage.\n\nAt Lad's face she flew, snarling murderously. One slash of her curving\neyetooth laid bare his cheek. Then she drove for his throat.\n\nLad stood stock still. His only move was to interpose his shaggy\nshoulder to her ravening jaws. And, deep into the fur and skin and\nflesh of his shoulder her furious teeth shore their way.\n\nIt would have been child's play for him to have shaken her off and to\nhave leaped to safety, alone, through the sash-less window.\n\nYet he stood where he was; his sorrowful eyes looking tenderly down\nupon the maddened youngster who was tearing into him so ferociously.\n\nAnd that was the picture the Master beheld; as he flung open the door\nand blinked gaspingly through the smoke for the dog he had locked in.\n\nBrought out of bed, on the jump, by Lad's unearthly wolf howl, he had\nsmelt the smoke and had run out to investigate. But, not until he\nunbarred the tool-house door did he guess that Lady was not the burning\nshack's only prisoner.\n\n\"It'll be another six months before your wonderful coat grows out\nagain, Laddie dear,\" observed the Mistress, next day, as she renewed\nthe smelly wet cloths on Lad's burned and glass-cut body. \"Dr. Hopper\nsays so. But he says the rest of you will be as well as ever, inside of\na fortnight. And he says Lady will be well, before you will. But,\nhonestly, you'll never look as beautiful, again, to me, as you do this\nvery minute. He--he said you look like a scarecrow. But you don't. You\nlook like a--like a--a-What gorgeously splendid thing DOES he look\nlike, dear?\" she appealed to her husband.\n\n\"He looks,\" replied the Master, after deep thought, \"he looks like LAD.\nAnd that's about the highest praise I know how to give him;--or give to\nanyone.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. The Stowaway\n\nThere were but three collies on the Place, in those days. Lad; his\ndainty gold-and-white mate, Lady; and their fluffy and fiery wisp of a\nson, little Wolf.\n\nWhen Wolf was a spoiled and obstreperous puppy of three months or so,\nLady was stricken with distemper and was taken to a veterinary\nhospital. There, for something more than three months she was nursed\nthrough the scourging malady and through the chorea and pneumonia which\nare so prone to follow in distemper's dread wake.\n\nScience amuses itself by cutting up and otherwise torturing helpless\ndogs in the unholy name of vivisection. But Science has not yet\ntroubled itself to discover one certain cure or preventive for the\ndistemper which yearly robs thousands of homes of their loved canine\npets and guards. Apparently it is pleasanter for scientists to watch a\nscreaming dog writhe under the knife in a research laboratory than to\ntrouble about finding a way to abolish distemper; and thus of ridding\nthe dog world of its worst scourge.\n\nThis is a digression from our story. But perhaps it is worth your\nremembering,--you who care about dogs.\n\nAltogether, Lady was away from the Place for fifteen weeks.\n\nAnd, in her absence, the unhappy Lad took upon himself the task of\nturning little Wolf from a pest into something approaching a decent\ncanine citizen. It was no sinecure, this educating of the hot-tempered\nand undisciplined youngster. But Lad brought to it an elephantine\npatience and an uncannily wise brain. And, by the time Lady was brought\nback, cured, the puppy had begun to show the results of his sire's\nstern teachings.\n\nIndeed, Lady's absence was the best thing that could have befallen\nWolf. For, otherwise, his training must needs have devolved upon the\nMistress and the Master. And no mere humans could have done the job\nwith such grimly gentle thoroughness as did Lad. Few dogs, except\npointers or setters or collies, will deign to educate their puppies to\nthe duties of life and of field and of house. But Lad had done the work\nin a way that left little to be asked for.\n\nWhen Lady came home, her flighty brain seemed to have forgotten the\nfact that young Wolf was her once-adored son. Of her earlier capricious\ndevotion to him, no trace remained. She sniffed in stand-offish inquiry\nat him; as at a stranger. And the scatterbrain pup remembered her no\nbetter than she remembered him. There is a wide gulf in intelligence\nbetween a three-month puppy and one six months old.\n\nYet,--perhaps because they were both excitable and mischievous and\nloved romping,--and because each was a novelty to the other--mother and\nson quickly formed a new friendship. From the more sedate and\ndiscipline-enforcing Lad, the youngster turned eagerly to chum-ship\nwith this flighty gold-white stranger. And Lady, for similar reason,\nseemed to find ten times as much congeniality and fun in romping with\nWolf as in playing with the less galvanically agile Lad.\n\nIn brief, Lady and little Wolf became inseparable companions;--this to\nthe semi-exclusion of Lad.\n\nThe great collie did not resent this exclusion; nor did he try to\nregain his fast-slipping hold on Wolf's affections. Yet, in fashion\nthat was more pathetic than ludicrous, he sought to win back Lady's\nwaning affection. A bit clumsily, he tried to romp and gambol with her,\nas did Wolf. He tried to interest her, as of yore, in following his\nlead in break-neck forest gallops after rabbits or in gloriously\nexhilarating swims in the fire-blue lake at the foot of the lawn. To\nthe pityingly on-looking Mistress and Master, he seemed like some\ngeneral or statesman seeking to unbend in the games and chatter of a\nparty of high school boys and girls.\n\nBut it was no use.\n\nTrue, in the cross-country runs or the swirling charges after rabbits,\nneither Lady nor Wolf could keep up with Lad's flying stride. And a\nlong swim, which scarce breathed Lad, would exhaust either or both of\nthem.\n\nBut, they were young; and he was middle-aged. And, as in human\nrelationships, that one sentence told the whole tragic story.\n\nAs well expect a couple of flyaway children to give up a game of tag in\norder to listen to the solemn discourse of an elderly uncle; as to make\nthe fun-loving Lady and Wolf widen their selfish comradeship to include\nin it the steadier and older and infinitely wiser Lad.\n\nPerforce, Lad was thrown more and more on the society of the Mistress\nand the Master. And, in their friendship, he was happy;--until he would\nchance to see his mate and his little son playing in wild ecstasy with\na stick or ball, and would frisk bulkily over to join them. In a bare\nsecond or two, the demeanor of both showed him just what a grossly\nunwelcome interloper he was.\n\nWhereat, after a wistfully miserable glance from one to the other of\nthe exclusive pair, Lad would trot slowly back to his human deities;\nand, with a queerly sobbing little sigh, he would curl up at the\nMistress's feet.\n\n\"It's a shame, Laddie!\" declared the Mistress, at one such time. \"It's\na SHAME! Why, you are worth a million of those crazy playdogs! You're a\nmillion times wiser and beautifuller and more lovable. Why do you\nbother with them? Master and I are ever so much better company for you;\nand we love to have you with us. Stay right here, and forget them.\"\n\nLad, perhaps, understood the actual meaning of one word in ten of the\nadvice. But he understood and loved the Mistress's sweet voice and the\ncaress of her cool little hand; and the sympathy in her tone. It all\nmeant much to Laddie. Very much indeed. And he laid his mighty head\nagainst her knee; happy in the comfort of touch and voice.\n\nNevertheless, that wistful glint was ever lurking in his deep-set eyes,\nnowadays. And his gayly trumpeting bark rang out less often and less\njubilantly than of old. He took to moping. And he spent more time than\nbefore in his beloved \"cave,\" under the music-room piano.\n\nMoping and solitude are no more beneficial to dogs than to humans. The\nMaster racked his brain for some way of bringing the splendid collie\nback to his olden spirits.\n\nLuck, or fate, took the matter out of his hands.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were invited to spend a week with some\nfriends whose house stood in an ultra-restricted residential park, high\nup in the Catskills. By leaving the Place at sunrise, they could reach\nthe Park, by motor, in time for afternoon tea.\n\nAt dawn, the car was brought to the door. Its tonneau was piled with\nluggage; and all was ready for a start as soon as the unappetizingly\nearly breakfast could be swallowed.\n\nWolf and Lady, after following the car from the garage to the door,\nwearied of the uninspiring wait; and set forth at a hand-gallop for the\nwoods. There, at dawning, the dew would lie heavy. And wet ground ever\nholds scent better than does dry. It would be easy to pick up and\nfollow rabbit trails, through the damp.\n\nLad made as though to follow them. He ran out of the house and half-way\nup the drive in pursuit of their flashing gold-and-white flight.\nNeither turned a head at sound of his following steps. Neither\nslackened pace to include him in the hunt.\n\nAlways abnormally sensitive, the big collie noted this aloofness. And\nhe came to an irresolute halt. For a moment, he stared after the two\nvanishing runaways; his plumed tail swaying ever so little, in\ngroundless expectation of an invitingly glance or yelp from Lady. Then,\ntail and crest adroop, he turned slowly back toward the house.\n\nFrom puppyhood, an odd trait of Lad's had caused amusement at the\nPlace. Whenever he was unhappy or considered himself ill-treated, it\nwas his way to hunt for something wherewith he might comfort himself.\nFor instance, as a pup, a scolding for some petty misdeed would send\nhim in search of his cherished flannel doll or his squeaking ball. In\nlater years, the car had taken the place of these babyhood comforters.\n\nLad cared more for motoring than for any other amusement. In moments of\nstress he sometimes ran to the garage and curled himself up in the\ntonneau; as though in hope someone might take pity on his unhappiness\nand give him a drive. And, usually, somebody did.\n\nNow, turning back, rebuffed, from the forest gallop, he caught sight of\nthe car. Not in the garage, either; but at the front door; where its\npresence could mean nothing except an immediate ride.\n\nWith one high spring, Lad had cleared the ground and was over the\nclosed tonneau door and amid a ruck of luggage and rugs. The rear seat\nwas filled by a steamer-trunk, strapped tightly in place there. And the\nbottom of the car was annoyingly crowded by bumpy bags and other gear.\n\nStill, by the simple and ancestral process of turning himself around\nseveral times, Lad was able to clear enough space on the floor to\npermit of his lying down; albeit in a very compact bunch.\n\nHe settled himself into place on the floor with a satisfied jounce\nwhich loosened a car-rug draped over the trunk. Down slithered the rug;\nand fell athwart the dog's shaggy back and one of the bags. It was not\nheavy enough to annoy Lad or hurt his feelings. And its draped folds\nserved as the top of a sort of cave for him. On the whole, Lad rather\nenjoyed the rug's descent. It made his narrow resting-place snugger and\nwarmer on this chilly early morning. Patiently, Lad lay there; waiting\nfor the car to start.\n\nHe did not have long to wait. In another minute or two, the Mistress\nand the Master came out from breakfast; and got into the front seat.\nThen the car was breasting the winding slope of the drive, in first\nspeed; the faint jar of the engine sending undulations over the\nmahogany-and-white coat of the stowaway dog. And, in a minute more,\nthey were out on the smooth highway, headed for the distant Catskills.\n\nNow, Lad had not the remotest notion he was a stowaway. On the few\ntimes when it had not been convenient to take him on drives, the Master\nhad always bidden him stay at home. And when, at such times, the dog\nchanced already to be its the car, he had been ordered back to earth.\nThere, was no way for Lad to know, this morning, that neither of the\ncar's other occupants had seen him as he lay curled up on the floor,\nthree-quarters hidden under the fallen rug. The luggage had been\narranged in the tonneau, before breakfast. And nobody had given a\nsecond glance at it since then.\n\nThe sun was rising over a new-made world, alive with summer glory and\nthrilling with bird-songs. The air, later in the day, would be warm.\nBut, at sunrise, it was sharp and bracing. The mystic wonder and the\nhush of dawn were still brooding over the earth. The hard white road\nstretched out, like a winding river, between banks of dew-gleaming\nverdure. The mountain-tops were glowing with the touch of the sun. In\nthe deeper valleys floated a shimmering dusk.\n\nThe car sped swiftly along the empty highway; slowing down only as it\nspun through half-awakened villages; or checked its pace to allow a\nsleepy boy to drive a straggling bunch of cows across the road to\npasturage.\n\nFor an hour or more, Lad lay cuddled under the rug in contented\nlaziness. Then the recumbent posture tired him; and he sat up. As a\nrule, one or the other of his deities was wont to turn around, at\nintervals, and speak to him or pet him. Today, neither of them paid him\nthe slightest attention. Still, the ride was a joy. And the surrounding\ncountry was new and interesting. So Lad had a good time, in spite of\nhuman neglect. After another hour or so, he curled up again, among the\nbags, and fell to drowsing.\n\nA six-hour run, over good roads, brought the car to Kingston, at the\ngateway to the Catskills. Here, at a hotel entrance, the machine came\nto a standstill. The Master got out, and turned to help the Mistress to\nalight. It was the place they had decided on for luncheon. Another\nthree hours, at most, would carry them to their destination.\n\nA negro boy, loafing aimlessly at the street corner, had begun to\nwhistle industriously to himself as the car slowed down. And he had\nwakened into active motion. Apparently, he remembered all at once an\nimportant mission on the other side of the street. For he set off at a\nswinging pace.\n\nHis course took him so near the back of the car that he had to turn\nout, a step or so, to avoid collision with it. He accompanied this\nturning-out maneuver by another which was less ostentatious, but more\npurposeful. Timing his steps, so as to pass by the rear of the car just\nas the Master was busy helping his wife to descend, the youth thrust an\narm over the side of the tonneau, with the speed of a striking snake.\nHis hand closed on the handle of a traveling bag, among the heap of\nluggage. Never slackening his pace, the negro gave a fierce yank at his\nplunder, to hoist it over the closed door.\n\nIn that tourist-ridden city, bag-stealing offered much profit. In the\nrare chance of detection when he was at work, the boy had only to plead\nover-zeal in trying to earn an honest dime by helping lift the luggage\nto the sidewalk.\n\nIt was a pretty bit of theft; and it betokened long and careful\npractice. Thus,--from the thief's standpoint,--it was almost a pity the\nbrilliant effort was wasted. For wasted it was.\n\nThis young negro prided himself on his powers of speed and of silence,\nin plying his trade. And, today, though he proceeded to excel in the\nfirst of these qualities, he disgraced himself most woefully as\nregarded the second.\n\nFor he jerked his hand out of the tonneau far faster than he had thrust\nit in. As he did so, he woke the echoes with the most blood-curdling\nscreech his leathern lungs could compass.\n\nAs his dusky fingers had closed on the bag, something viselike and\nrelentless had fastened upon those same expert fingers; breaking two of\nthem, and rending the flesh of the lower hand.\n\nLad, in rising to his feet, after his pleasant nap, at the slowing of\nthe car, had been aware of that predatory hand; as it groped for the\nbag. Now, from puppyhood, Lad had been taught to regard everything in\nthe car as under his own careful guardianship. Hence, he lunged forward\nand sank his terrible white teeth deep into the groping fingers.\n\nBy main force the youth tore free. With a second screech, he reeled\nback from the unseen peril which had assailed him. But Lad would not\nhave it so.\n\nThere was a harsh-breathed growl, from down in the tonneau; and, on the\ninstant, a tawny giant shape came catapulting over the top of the shut\ndoor and hurled itself upon the staggering negro.\n\nThe Master, turning at sound of the yell, was just in time to see the\nattack. The collie,--supposedly ninety miles away, and peacefully\nguarding the Place,--was hurtling through the air and crashing against\nthe chest of a gray-faced and pop-eyed young negro. To earth went the\ntwo; in a cloud of dust; a second before the Master's sharp call\nbrought Lad reluctantly away from his prey, and just as a policeman and\na score of idlers came running up.\n\nThe thief did not wait to explain. No sooner did he see the Master\ncatch the infuriated dog by the ruff than he scrambled to his feet;\nducked under the policeman's arm and set off, around a corner, in\nsomething better than record time. Somehow, the encounter had deprived\nhim of the nerve and the pluck to stand his ground and to explain that\nhe had merely been trying to help with the luggage. His only desire,\njust then, was to put as many thousand miles as possible between\nhimself and the tawny demon that had assaulted him.\n\n\"Laddie!\" gasped the Mistress, unbelieving, as the policeman and most\nof the little crowd set off after the fugitive. \"LADDIE! What in the\nworld--?\"\n\n\"He--he must have been in the car, all the time,\" gabbled the Master,\nbrilliantly. \"He must have jumped in, while we were at breakfast. See,\nhe's cleared a space for himself between two of the bags. He's been\nthere, all the time, and we never--\"\n\n\"If he hadn't been there,\" suggested the Mistress, \"we'd be looking now\nfor one or two pieces of luggage that had disappeared. When the Grays\nwent through here, one of their suitcases was--\"\n\n\"But what in blazes are we going to do with him?\" broke in the Master,\nworriedly. \"We can't take him all the way home. And I won't trust to\nsending him by express. He might get backed onto a siding and be kept\nthere for days, without food or water. Besides, they won't let a dog go\nby express unless he's in a crate. What are we to do?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the Mistress, stooping to stroke the silken head that\nrested against her knee, \"Why, Laddie seems to have settled that for\nus, by coming along. He's surely paid his way. We'll have to take him\nthe rest of the trip. The Harmons will be glad to see him, I'm sure.\nEverybody's always glad to see Laddie, wherever we go. Let's take him.\nIt's the only thing to do. We can explain to them how it happened.\"\n\nAnd so, after more discussion, it was settled. Even as most things had\na way of being settled when the Mistress proposed them.\n\nThree hours later, the car stopped before the entrance of a roomily\nbeautiful house in a roomily beautiful residence park, in the upper\nCatskills.\n\nThe welcoming smiles on the faces of host and hostess suffered sudden\neclipse; as a huge mahogany-and-white collie stepped majestically from\nthe car at the heels of the two guests.\n\n\"This is Lad,\" introduced the Mistress. \"I hope you don't mind our\nbringing him. I can promise he won't be a bit of trouble to anybody. We\ndidn't mean to bring him. It just happened. This was the way:--\"\n\nWhile she was recounting the adventure to Mrs. Harmon, their host drew\nthe Master to one side.\n\n\"Say, old man,\" began Harmon, with visible discomfort, \"please don't\nmisunderstand me or anything. But I'm a little bothered about just what\nto do. This is the idea: There was a mad dog scare here in Daylight\nPark, last month, when a Pom puppy snapped at some kids that were\nteasing it. Then, a day or so later, a Persian cat had fits and chased\nold Mrs. Cratchitt across a lawn and gave her a spell of palpitation of\nthe heart. And the next day an Angora goat that the Varian children had\nas a pet got loose and chewed up several hundred dollars' worth of\nlingerie off a line. Then the Clives' spaniel took to barking under\nRutherford Garretse's study window. And--\"\n\n\"You needn't be afraid of Lad's doing any of those fool things,\"\nbragged the Master. \"He behaves as well as any human. Better than most\nof them. He--\"\n\n\"That isn't the point,\" said his host, with growing uneasiness. \"You\nsee, Daylight Park is run as a club. Home government and all that sort\nof thing. Well, these livestock fracases raised such a row that the\nclub's Board of Governors has passed an ordinance, forbidding the\nkeeping of any pet animals in the whole park. Nothing bigger than a\ncanary bird can be harbored here. It's a hard-and-fast rule. It seemed\nthe only way to save our whole summer colony from disruption. You know\na livestock squabble can cause more ructions in a small community\nthan--\"\n\n\"I see,\" mused the Master, staring glumly after Lad who was just\nvanishing into the house in the wake of the Mistress and the unhappy\nMrs. Harmon. \"I see. H'm!\"\n\nHe pondered for an instant, while his host shifted from foot to foot\nand looked apologetic. Then the Master spoke again.\n\n\"The only way out, that I see,\" he hazarded, \"is for me to drive back\nhome with Lad; and leave him there and come on here, tomorrow. I can--\"\n\n\"Nothing of the sort!\" protested Harmon, \"There's an easier way than\nthat. Wittsville is only a mile or so from the Park gates. They've got\na fine boarding kennel there. Several of the Park's dogs were exiled to\nit, when our ordinance went into effect. Jump into the car, and we'll\ntake your collie there in ten minutes. He'll be well treated. And you\nand your wife can go to see him, every day you're here. Come along.\nI--I hate to seem inhospitable about this thing. But you see for\nyourself how it is. We--\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" assented the Master. \"I'll go in and get him and explain\nto my wife. Don't let it make you feel uncomfortable. We both\nunderstand.\"\n\nWhich accounts for the fact that Lad, within the next half hour, was\npreparing to spend his first night away from home and from the two\npeople who were his gods. He was not at all happy. It had been an\ninteresting day. But its conclusion did not please Laddie, in any\nmanner.\n\nAnd, when things did not please Lad, he had a very determined fashion\nof trying to avoid them;--unless perchance the Mistress or the Master\nhad decreed otherwise.\n\nThe Master had brought him to this obnoxious strange place. But he had\nnot bidden Lad stay there. And the collie merely waited his chance to\nget out. At ten o'clock, one of the kennelmen made the night rounds. He\nswung open the door of the little stall in which Lad had been locked\nfor the night. At least, he swung the door halfway open. Lad swung it\nthe rest of the way.\n\nWith a plunge, the collie charged out through the opening portal,\nducked between the kennelman's legs, reached the open gate of the\nenclosure in two more springs; and vanished down the road into the\ndarkness.\n\nAs soon as he felt the highway under his feet, Lad's nose drooped\nearthward; and he sniffed with all his might.  Instantly, he caught the\nscent he was seeking;--a scent as  familiar to him as that of his own\npiano cave; the scent of the Place's car-tires.\n\nIt had taken Harmon and the Master the best part of ten minutes to\ndrive through the park and to the boarding kennels. It took Lad less\nthan half that time to reach the veranda of the Harmon house. Circling\nthe house and finding all doors shut, he lay down on the mat; and\nsettled himself to sleep there in what comfort he might, until the\nMistress and the Master should come down in the morning and find him.\n\nBut the Harmons were late risers. And the sun had been up for some\nhours before any of the household were astir.\n\nIf Lad had been the professionally Faithful Hound, of storybooks, he\nwould doubtless have waited on the mat until someone should come to let\nhim in. But, after lying there until broad daylight, he was moved to\nexplore this new section of the world. The more so, since house after\nhouse within range of his short vision showed signs of life and\nactivity.\n\nSeveral people passed and repassed along the private roadway in front\nof the Harmons' door; and nearly all of these paused to peer at Lad, in\nwhat seemed to the collie a most flattering show of interest.\n\nAt last, the dog got to his feet, stretched himself fore-and-aft, in\ntrue collie fashion; and trotted down the paved walk to the road. There\nfor a moment, he stood hesitant. As he stood, he was surveying the\nscene;--not only with his eyes, but with those far stronger sense\norgans, his ears and his nostrils. His ears told him nothing of\ninterest. His nose told him much. Indeed, before he had fairly reached\nthe road, these nostrils had telegraphed to his brain an odor that not\nonly was highly interesting, but totally new to him. Lad's experience\nwith scents was far-reaching. But this smell lay totally outside all\nhis knowledge or memory.\n\nIt was a rank and queer smell;--not strong enough, out there in the\nopen, to register in a human-brain; but almost stingingly acute to the\nhighly sensitized dog. It was an alluring scent; the sort of odor that\nroused all his curiosity and seemed to call for prompt investigation.\n\nNose to ground, Lad set off to trace the smell to its source. Strong as\nit was, it grew stronger and fresher at every step. Even a mongrel\npuppy could have followed it. Oblivious to all else, Lad broke into a\ncanter; nose still close to earth; pleasurably excited and keenly\ninquisitive.\n\nHe ran along the private road for perhaps a hundred yards. Then, he\nwheeled in at another paved walk and ran up a low flight of veranda\nsteps. The front door of a house stood invitingly open to the cool air\nof the morning. In through the doorway went Lad; unheeding the gobbling\ncall of a maid-servant who was sweeping the far end of the veranda.\n\nLad did not know he was committing trespass. To him an open door had\nalways meant permission to enter. And the enticingly rank scent was\ntenfold stronger indoors than out. Across a hallway he trotted, still\nsniffing; and up a flight of stairs leading to the second story of the\nhouse.\n\nAt the stairhead, a room door stood wide. And into this room led the\nodor. Lad went in. He was in a large and sunlit room; but in the most\ndisorderly room he had ever set eyes on. The room needed airing, too.\nFor all its four windows were closed, except one which was open for\nperhaps six inches from the top.\n\nLad circled the room, twice; from door to windows, and thence to center\ntable and around the walls; pausing at one window sill and again at the\nthreshold; picking his way daintily over heaps of litter on the floor.\nYes, the room was full of the scent. But, whence the scent emanated,\nLad could not, for the life of him, tell. The room gave him no clew.\nAnd, after a few minutes of futile investigation, he turned to depart.\n\nAt the stairhead, he came upon the same servant he had seen sweeping\nthe veranda. She cried: \"Shoo!\" at him and brandished her broom. Lad,\nin offended dignity, stalked past her and out of the house.\n\nHis quest having proven vain, he betook himself to the Harmons',\narriving there as the Mistress and the Master emerged upon the veranda\nin company with their hosts. In wild delight, Lad scampered up to the\nMistress; his whole stately body wriggling in eager welcome, his tiny\nwhite forepaws patting at her feet, his muzzle thrusting itself into\nher cupped hand.\n\n\"Why, Lad!\" she cried. \"Laddie! We were so worried about you. They just\nphoned from the kennels that you had gotten away. I might have known\nyou'd find your way to us. We--\"\n\nShe got no further. Up the walk, from the road, came running an\napoplectically red and puffing man of late middle age;--a man whose\nface bore traces of lather; and who was swathed in a purple bathrobe.\nFlapping slippers ill-covered his sockless feet.\n\nThe Master recognized the fast-advancing newcomer. He recognized him\nfrom many pictures in newspapers and magazines.\n\nThis was Rutherford Garretse, world-famed author and collector; the\nliterary lion and chief celebrity of the summer colony at Daylight\nPark. But what eccentricity of genius could account for his costume and\nfor this bellicose method of bearing down upon a neighbor's home, was\nmore than the Master could guess.\n\nNor did the visitor's first words clear up the mystery. Halting at the\nfoot of the steps, Rutherford Garretse gesticulated in dumb anguish,\nwhile he fought for breath and for coherent speech. Then, disregarding\nHarmon's wondering greeting, the celebrity burst into choking staccato\nspeech.\n\n\"That dog!\" he croaked. \"That--that--DOG! The maid saw him go into the\nhouse. Saw him go up to my study. She was afraid to follow, at first.\nBut in a few minutes she did. She saw him coming out of my study!\nCOME!!! I demand it. All of you. COME!\"\n\nWithout another word, he wheeled and made off down the road, pausing\nonly to beckon imperiously. Marveling, the group on the veranda\nfollowed. Deaf to their questions, he led the way. Lad fell into line\nbehind the perplexed Mistress.\n\nDown the road to the next house, stalked Rutherford Garretse. At the\ndoorway, he repeated his dramatic gesture and commanded:\n\n\"COME!\"\n\nUp the broad stairs he stamped. Behind him trailed the dumfounded\nprocession; Laddie still pattering happily along with the Mistress. At\nthe open door of a large room at the stairhead, the author stood aside\nand pointed in silent despair through the doorway.\n\n\"What's up?\" queried Harmon, for perhaps the tenth time. \"Is\nanything--?\"\n\nHis question ended in a grunt. And, like the others, he stared aghast\non the scene before him.\n\nThe room, very evidently, was a study. But much of its floor, just now,\nwas heaped, ankle high, with hundreds of pages of torn and crumpled\npaper.\n\nThe desk-top and a Sheraton cabinet and table were bare of all\ncontents. On the floor reposed countless shattered articles of glass\nand porcelain; jumbled together with blotters an pastepot and shears\nand ink-stand and other utensils. Ink had been poured in grotesque\npattern on rugs and parquetry and window curtains.\n\nIn one corner lay a typewriter, its keys twisted and its carriage\nbroken. Books--some of them in rare bindings,--lay gutted and\nink-smeared, from one end of the place to the other.\n\nThrough the daze of general horror boomed the tremblingly majestic\nvoice of Rutherford Garretse.\n\n\"I wanted you to see!\" he declaimed. \"I ordered everything left as it\nwas. That mess of papers all over the floor is what remains of the\nfirst draft of my book. The book I have been at work on for six months!\nI--\"\n\n\"And it was the dog, there!\" sputtered the maid-servant; emotion riding\nover discipline. \"I c'n swear the room was neat and all dusted. Not a\nblessed thing out of place; and all the paper where Mr. Garretse had\nstacked 'em in his portfolio, yonder. I dusted this study and then the\ndining room. And then I went out to sweep the veranda; like I always\ndo, before breakfast. And maybe ten minutes later I see this brute trot\nout of Mr. Harmon's place, and along the road, and come, asnuffing up\nthe steps and into the house. And when I followed him upstairs and\nscatted him out, I saw the room looking like it is, now; and I yells to\nMr. Garretse, and he's shaving, and--\"\n\n\"That will do, Esther!\" snapped the author. \"And, now, sir--\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Garretse,\" put in the Mistress, \"Lad never did such a thing\nas this, in all his life! He's been brought up in the house. Even as a\npuppy, he was--\"\n\n\"The evidence shows otherwise,\" interrupted Garretse, with a visible\nstruggle at self-control. \"No human, unless he were a maniac, would\nhave done such a wantonly destructive thing. No other animal has been\nhere. The dog was seen entering and leaving this room. And my work of\nsix months is not only destroyed by him, but many of the very best\npieces in my glass-and-porcelain cabinet.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"I consented to stay on at Daylight Park, only on the solemn assurance\nof the Governors that no animal should be allowed again within the Park\nprecincts. I detest animals. Particularly dogs. And now I see my\ndislike is not mere prejudice. May I ask what the owners and--and the\nharborer--of the cur mean to do about this outrage? Notice, please,\nthat I am speaking with studied moderation, in asking this vital\nquestion. I--\"\n\n\"It is my fault,--or rather, it is a mistake,--that Lad is in the\nPark,\" spoke up the Master. \"Mr. Harmon is wholly innocent in the\nmatter. I can testify to that. If there is any fine or other penalty in\nconnection with my dog's being here, I'm ready to settle for it. But if\nyou expect me to believe that Laddie did all this weird damage to your\nmanuscript and your collection and your room,--why, that's absurd!\nUtterly absurd! Lad, never in his life,--\"\n\n\"The courts will think otherwise!\" blazed Garretse, losing a fraction\nof his hard-held selfmastery. \"And the case shall go through every\ncourt in the land, since you persist in this idiotic denial of a proven\nfact. I warn you, I shall--Look there!\" he broke off, furiously,\nleveling a shakily vehement forefinger at Lad. \"Watch him! He's\nprowling around, even now, in search of more things to injure. He--\"\n\nThe author finished his sentence by catching up a heavy metal\npaperweight and drawing it back as if for a throw. His muscles flexed.\nThe Mistress moved, as by accident, between the raging man and the dog.\n\nThe Master, for the moment, lacked presence of mind to do even that\nmuch for his canine chum's safety. He was too much taken up in glaring\nunbelievingly at Lad.\n\nThe sedate collie, after following the bevy of excited humans upstairs,\nhad stood gravely, just inside the threshold; looking with keen\ninterest from one to the other of the gesticulating and noisy group.\nThen, as a sharp whiff of that same baffling scent assailed his nose,\nhe began a new tour of the room.\n\nThe odor was fresher than before. And Lad's curiosity was roused to the\nfull. He sniffed to right and left, exploring the floor rubbish with\ninquiring muzzle, and circling the despoiled writing desk.\n\nIt was then that Garretse called attention to him. And it was then that\nLad's nose suddenly pointed skyward. In another moment, he had bounded\neagerly toward one of the windows,--the window that was slightly open\nfrom the top.\n\nFrom that direction, the scent now came; and it was more potent than at\nany earlier time in his quest.\n\nEven as the astonished eyes of the group followed Lad window-ward,\nthose same eyes were attracted by a partial darkening of the open space\nat the window's top.\n\nInto the room, through the narrow aperture wiggled a hairy form, moving\nwith eel-like speed.\n\nThence, it leaped to the floor. For the fraction of a second, the\nintruder crouched there; peering about, to determine into what company\nhis jump had landed him.\n\nHe was a gray monkey, small, infinitely aged and withered of aspect.\nHis paws and forearms were black with half-dry ink. Here and there, all\nover his fuzzy gray body, ink-blobs were spattered. In one skinny paw\nhe still clutched the splintered fragment of a Satsuma vase.\n\nBy the time the gaping humans could get a single good look at the\nmonkey, Lad was at him. Here at last was the solution of that\nmysterious scent, so new to the collie.\n\nLad galloped toward the wizened and malodorous gray bunch; more intent\non investigation than on attack. The monkey did not wait for him. With\nan incredibly agile leap, he was on the spattered window curtains and\nswarming up to the rod at the top. There he squatted, well out of\nreach; grimacing horribly and chattering in simian wrath.\n\n\"It's--it's a devil!\" stammered Rutherford Garretse; his nearsighted\neyes squinting as he sought to take in the motley details of the\ncreature's appearance. \"I--\"\n\n\"It's Mrs. McMurdle's pest of a monkey, sirs\" blithered the maid.\n\"Asking your pardon. The one she made such a fuss about sending away,\nlast month, when all beastees was barred from the Park. It must 'a'\nstrayed back from where she sent it to, the crafty little nuisance!\nIt's--\"\n\n\"Incidentally,\" said the Master, \"it is the creature that wrecked your\nroom. See the ink on it. And that bit of porcelain it's brandishing at\nus looks like a match for some of these smashed bits on the floor. It\ngot in here, I suppose, through that window, earlier,--and--\"\n\n\"No,\" corrected the Mistress, wiser at deduction. \"Through the doorway,\ndownstairs. From somewhere outside. Probably while the maid was dusting\nthe dining-room. It came in here and began destroying things; as\nmonkeys love to. And Laddie struck its trail and followed it up here.\nIt heard Lad coming and it got out through the window. Then, just now,\nsomething outside scared it; and it climbed back in again. I wonder\nif--\"\n\nAs she talked, the Mistress had moved toward the nearest window.\n\n\"See?\" she finished, in triumph, as she pointed out and down.\n\nOn the patch of back lawn, below, stood a very much flustered old lady,\nher worried gaze upraised to the study. In one hand she carried a\nleash, in the other a half-peeled banana.\n\n\"It's Mrs. McMurdle!\" exclaimed Harmon. \"The maid was right. She must\nhave disobeyed the ordinance and had the miserable monkey hidden in her\nhouse all the time. It must have gotten out, this morning; and she\nhunted around till she saw it perched on the top of the window cornice.\nI suppose it dived back in here, at sight of her. She--\"\n\n\"Come on, Laddie!\" whispered the Mistress, under cover of a new\noutbreak of multiple talk. \"YOU'RE acquitted, anyhow. And the rest of\nthe scene is really no business of ours. The sooner we get you to the\nboarding kennels again, the less chance there is of trouble. And Master\nand I will come to see you there, every single day, till we go back\nhome.\"\n\nA week later, the car turned in again at the gates of the Place. This\ntime, Lad rode in state atop the flat trunk on the rear seat. As the\ncar halted at the veranda, he sprang to earth without waiting for the\ntonneau door to be opened.\n\nFor, dashing toward him from the direction of the lake, Lady hove in\nsight. Behind her, and trotting more leisurely, came Wolf. At sight and\nscent of her returned mate, Lady fairly squealed with delight. She\nwhirled up to Lad, frantically licking his face and spinning about him\nwith little staccato yelps of joy.\n\nLad was deliriously happy. Not only was he at home again; but Lady was\nwelcoming him with an effusion that she had not shown him for many a\nsorrowful month. He could not understand it. Nor did he try to. He was\ncontent to accept the miracle; and to rejoice in it with all his great\nhonest heart.\n\nKnowing nothing of feminine psychology, he could not realize that a\nweek of Puppy Wolf's sole and undiluted companionship had bored Lady\nhorribly and had begun to get on her nerves;--nor that she had learned\nto miss and yearn for the big, wise, ever-gentle mate whom she had so\nlong neglected.\n\nIt was enough for Lad to know that he was no longer a neglected\noutsider, in the Place's canine family; but that his worshiped mate was\nwild with joy to see him again.\n\n\"Look!\" said the Master. \"The old chap has forgiven her for every bit\nof her rottenness to him. He's insanely happy, just because she chooses\nto make much of him, once more.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" assented the Mistress, cryptically \"Sometimes dogs are\npitifully--human!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. The Tracker\n\nThe child's parents were going to Europe for three months, that winter.\nThe child himself was getting over a nervous ailment. The doctors had\nadvised he be kept out of school for a term; and be sent to the country.\n\nHis mother was afraid the constant travel from place to place, in\nEurope, might be too much for him. So she asked leave of the Mistress\nand the Master,--one of whom was her distant relative,--for the\nconvalescent to stay at the Place during his parents' absence.\n\nThat was how it all started.\n\nThe youngster was eleven years old; lank and gangling, and blest with a\nfretful voice and with far less discipline and manners than a\nthree-month collie pup. His name was Cyril. Briefly, he was a pest,--an\nunspeakable pest.\n\nFor the first day or two at the Place, the newness of his surroundings\nkept Cyril more or less in bounds. Then, as homesickness and novelty\nalike wore off, his adventurous soul expanded.\n\nHe was very much at home; far more so than were his hosts, and\ninfinitely more pleased than they with the situation in general. He had\nan infinite genius for getting into trouble. Not in the delightfully\nnormal fashion of the average growing boy; but in furtively crafty ways\nthat did not belong to healthy childhood.\n\nDay by day, Cyril impressed his odd personality more and more on\neverything around him. The atmosphere of sweet peace which had brooded,\nlike a blessing, over the whole Place, was dispersed.\n\nThe cook,--a marvel of culinary skill and of long service, gave tearful\nwarning, and departed. This when she found the insides of all her\ncooking utensils neatly soaped; and the sheaf of home-letters in her\nwork-box replaced by cigar-coupons.\n\nOne of the workmen threw over his job with noisy blasphemy; when his\nroom above the stables was invaded by stealth and a comic-paper picture\nof a goat's head substituted for his dead mother's photograph in the\nwell-polished little bronze frame on his bureau.\n\nAnd so on, all along the line.\n\nThe worst and most continuous sufferer from Cyril's loathed presence on\nthe Place was the massive collie, Lad.\n\nThe child learned, on the first day of his visit, that it would be\nwell-nigh as safe to play with a handful of dynamite as with Lad's\ngold-and-white mate, Lady. Lady did not care for liberties from anyone.\nAnd she took no pains to mask her snappish first-sight aversion to the\nlanky Cyril. Her fiery little son, Wolf, was scarce less formidable\nthan she, when it came to being teased by an outsider. But gallant old\nLad was safe game.\n\nHe was safe game for Cyril, because Lad's mighty heart and soul were\nmiles above the possibility of resenting anything from so pitifully\nweak and defenseless a creature as this child. He seemed to realize, at\na glance, that Cyril was an invalid and helpless and at a physical\ndisadvantage. And, as ever toward the feeble, his big nature went out\nin friendly protection to this gangling wisp of impishness.\n\nWhich was all the good it did him.\n\nIn fact, it laid the huge collie open to an endless succession of\ntorment. For the dog's size and patience seemed to awaken every atom of\nbullying cruelty in the small visitor's nature.\n\nCyril, from the hour of his arrival, found acute bliss in making Lad's\nlife a horror. His initial step was to respond effusively to the\ncollie's welcoming advances; so long as the Mistress and the Master\nchanced to be in the room. As they passed out, the Mistress chanced to\nlook back.\n\nShe saw Cyril pull a bit of cake from his pocket and, with his left\nhand, proffer it to Lad. The tawny dog stepped courteously forward to\naccept the gift. As his teeth were about to close daintily on the cake,\nCyril whipped it back out of reach; and with his other hand rapped Lad\nsmartly across the nose.\n\nHad any grown man ventured a humiliating and painful trick of that sort\non Lad, the collie would have been at the tormentor's throat, on the\ninstant. But it was not in the great dog's nature to attack a child.\nShrinking back, in amaze, his abnormally sensitive feelings jarred, the\ncollie retreated majestically to his beloved \"cave\" under the\nmusic-room piano.\n\nTo the Mistress's remonstrance, Cyril denied most earnestly that he had\ndone the thing. Nor was his vehemently tearful denial shaken by her\nassertion that she had seen it all.\n\nLad soon forgave the affront. And he forgave a dozen other and worse\nmal-treatments which followed. But, at last, the dog took to shunning\nthe neighborhood of the pest. That availed him nothing; except to make\nCyril seek him out in whatsoever refuge the dog had chosen.\n\nLad, trotting hungrily to his dinner dish, would find his food\nthick-strewn with cayenne pepper or else soaked in reeking gasoline.\n\nLad, seeking peace and solitude in his piano cave, would discover his\nrug, there, cleverly scattered with carpet tacks, points upward.\n\nLad, starting up from a snooze at the Mistress's call, would be deftly\ntripped as he started to bound down the veranda steps, and would risk\nbruises and fractures by an ugly fall to the driveway below.\n\nWherever Lad went, whatever Lad did, there was a cruel trick awaiting\nhim. And, in time, the dog's dark eyes took on an expression of puzzled\nunhappiness that went straight to the hearts of the two humans who\nloved him.\n\nAll his life, Lad had been a privileged character on the Place. Never\nhad he known nor needed whip or chain. Never had he,--or any of the\nPlace's other dogs,--been wantonly teased by any human. He had known,\nand had given, only love and square treatment and stanch friendliness.\nHe had ruled as benevolent monarch of the Place's Little People; had\ngiven loyal service to his two deities, the Mistress and the Master;\nand had stood courteously aloof from the rest of mankind. And he had\nbeen very, very happy.\n\nNow, in a breath, all this was changed. Ever at his heels, ever waiting\nto find some new way to pester him, was a human too small and too weak\nto attack;--a human who was forever setting the collie's high-strung\nnerves on edge or else actively hurting him. Lad could not understand\nit. And as the child gained in health and strength, Lad's lot grew\nincreasingly miserable.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were keenly aware of conditions. And they\ndid their best,--a useless best,--to mitigate them for the dog. They\nlabored over Cyril, to make him leave Lad alone. They pointed out to\nhim the mean cowardice of his course of torture. They even threatened\nto send him to nearer relatives until his parents' return. All in vain.\nFaced with the most undeniable proofs, the child invariably would lie.\nHe denied that he had ever ill-used Lad in any way; and would weep, in\nrighteous indignation, at the charges. What was to be done?\n\n\"I thought it would brighten up the house so, to have a child in it\nagain!\" sighed the Mistress as she and her husband discussed the\nmatter, uselessly, for the fiftieth time, after one of these scenes. \"I\nlooked forward so much to his coming here! But he's--oh, he isn't like\nany child I ever heard of before!\"\n\n\"If I could devote five busy minutes a day to him,\" grunted the Master,\n\"with an axe-handle or perhaps a bale-stick--\"\n\n\"You wouldn't do it!\" denied his wife. \"You wouldn't harm him; any more\nthan Lad does. That's the trouble. If Cyril belonged to us, we could\npunish him. Not with a--a balestick, of course. But he needs a good\nwholesome spanking, more than anyone else I can think of. That or some\nother kind of punishment that would make an impression on him. But what\ncan we do? He isn't ours--\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" interpolated the Master, piously.\n\n\"And we can't punish other people's child,\" she finished. \"I don't know\nwhat we CAN do. I wouldn't mind half so much about the other sneaky\nthings he does; if it wasn't for the way he treats Laddie. I--\"\n\n\"Suppose we send Lad to the boarding kennels, at Ridgewood, till the\nbrat is gone?\" suggested the Master. \"I hate to do it. And the good old\nchap will be blue with homesickness there. But at least he'll get kind\ntreatment. When he comes over to me and looks up into my eyes in that\nterribly appealing way, after Cyril has done some rotten thing to\nhim,--well, I feel like a cur, not to be able to justify his faith that\nI can make things all right for him. Yes, I think I'll send him to the\nboarding kennels. And, if it weren't for leaving you alone to face\nthings here, I'd be tempted to hire a stall at the kennels for myself,\ntill the pest is gone.\"\n\nThe next day, came a ray of light in the bothered gloom. And the\nquestion of the boarding kennels was dropped. The Mistress received a\nletter from Cyril's mother. The European trip had been cut short, for\nbusiness reasons; and the two travelers expected to land in New York on\nthe following Friday.\n\n\"Who dares say Friday is an unlucky day?\" chortled the Master in glee,\nas his wife reached this stage of the letter.\n\n\"And,\" the Mistress read on, \"we will come out to the Place, on the\nnoon train; and take darling Cyril away with us. I wish we could stay\nlonger with you; but Henry must be in Chicago on Saturday night. So we\nmust catch a late afternoon train back to town, and take the night\ntrain West. Now, I--\"\n\n\"Most letters are a bore,\" interpolated the Master. \"Or else they're a\nbother. But this one is a pure rapture. Read it more slowly, won't,\nyou, dear? I want to wallow in every blessed word of hope it contains.\nGo ahead. I'm sorry I interrupted. Read on. You'll never have such\nanother enthusiastic audience.\"\n\n\"And now,\" the Mistress continued her reading, \"I am going to ask both\nof you not to say a single word to precious Cyril about our coming home\nso soon. We want to surprise him. Oh, to think what his lovely face\nwill be like, when he sees us walking in!\"\n\n\"And to think what MY lovely face will be like, when I see him walking\nout!\" exulted the Master. \"Laddie, come over here. We've got the\ngorgeousest news ever! Come over and be glad!\"\n\nLad, at the summons, came trotting out of his cave, and across the\nroom. Like every good dog who has been much talked to, he was as adept\nas any dead-beat in reading the varying shades of the human voice. The\nvoices and faces alike of his two adored deities told him something\nwonderful had happened. And, as ever, he rejoiced in their gladness.\nLifting his magnificent head, he broke into a salvo of trumpeting\nbarks; the oddly triumphant form of racket he reserved for great\nmoments.\n\n\"What's Laddie doing?\" asked Cyril, from the threshold. \"He sounds as\nif he was going mad or something.\"\n\n\"He's happy,\" answered the Mistress.\n\n\"Why's he happy?\" queried the child.\n\n\"Because his Master and I are happy,\" patiently returned the Mistress.\n\n\"Why are YOU happy?\" insisted Cyril.\n\n\"Because today is Thursday,\" put in the Master. \"And that means\ntomorrow will be Friday.\"\n\n\"And on Friday,\" added the Mistress, \"there's going to be a beautiful\nsurprise for you, Cyril. We can't tell you what it is, but--\"\n\n\"Why can't you tell me?\" urged the child. \"Aw, go ahead and tell me! I\nthink you might.\"\n\nThe Master had gone over to the nearest window; and was staring out\ninto the gray-black dusk. Mid-winter gripped the dead world; and the\ntwilight air was deathly chill. The tall naked treetops stood gaunt and\nwraithlike against a leaden sky.\n\nTo the north, the darkness was deepest. Evil little puffs of gale\nstirred the powdery snow into myriads of tiny dancing white devils. It\nhad been a fearful winter, thus far; colder than for a score of years;\nso cold that many a wild woodland creature, which usually kept far back\nin the mountains, had ventured down nearer to civilization for forage\nand warmth.\n\nDeer tracks a-plenty had been seen, close up to the gates of the Place.\nAnd, two days ago, in the forest, half a mile away, the Master had come\nupon the half-human footprints of a young bear. Starvation stalked\nabroad, yonder in the white hills. And need for provender had begun to\nwax stronger among the folk of the wilderness than their inborn dread\nof humans.\n\n\"There's a big snowstorm coming up,\" ruminated the Master, as he\nscanned the grim weather-signs. \"A blizzard, perhaps. I--I hope it\nwon't delay any incoming steamers. I hope at least one of them will\ndock on schedule. It--\"\n\nHe turned back from his musings, aware for the first time that a right\nsprightly dialogue was going on. Cyril was demanding for the eighth\ntime:\n\n\"WHY won't you tell me? Aw, I think you might! What's going to happen\nthat's so nice, Friday?\"\n\n\"Wait till Friday and see,\" laughed the Mistress.\n\n\"Shucks!\" he snorted. \"You might tell me, now. I don't want to wait and\nget s'prised. I want to know, NOW. Tell me!\"\n\nUnder her tolerant smile, the youngster's voice scaled to an impatient\nwhine. He was beginning to grow red.\n\n\"Let it go at that!\" ordained the Master. \"Don't spoil your own fun, by\ntrying to find out, beforehand. Be a good sportsman.\"\n\n\"Fun!\" snarled Cyril. \"What's the fun of secrets? I want to know--\"\n\n\"It's snowing,\" observed the Mistress, as a handful of flakes began to\ndrift past the windows, tossed along on a puff of wind.\n\n\"I want to KNOW!\" half-wept the child; angry at the change of subject,\nand noting that the Mistress was moving toward the next room, with Lad\nat her heels. \"Come back and tell me!\"\n\nHe stamped after her to bar her way. Lad was between the irate Cyril\nand the Mistress. In babyish rage at the dog's placid presence in his\npath, he drew back one ungainly foot and kicked the astonished collie\nin the ribs.\n\nAt the outrage, Lad spun about, a growl in his throat. But he forbore\nto bite or even to show his teeth. The growl had been of indignant\nprotest at such unheard-of treatment; not a menace. Then the dog\nstalked haughtily to his cave, and lay down there.\n\nBut the human witnesses to the scene were less forbearing;--being only\nhumans. The Mistress cried out, in sharp protest at the little brute's\naction. And the Master leaned forward, swinging Cyril clear of the\nground. Holding the child firmly, but with no roughness, the Master\nsteadied his own voice as best he could; and said:--\n\n\"This time you've not even bothered to wait till our backs were turned.\nSo don't waste breath by crying and saying you didn't do it. You're not\nmy child; so I have no right to punish you. And I'm not going to. But I\nwant you to know you've just kicked something that's worth fifty of\nyou.\"\n\n\"You let me down!\" Cyril snarled.\n\n\"Lad is too white and clean and square to hurt anything that can't hit\nback,\" continued the Master. \"And you are not. That's the difference\nbetween you. One of the several million differences,--all of them in\nLad's favor. When a child begins life by being cruel to dumb animals,\nit's a pretty bad sign for the way he's due to treat his fellow-humans\nin later years,--if ever any of them are at his mercy. For your own\nsake, learn to behave at least as decently as a dog. If--\"\n\n\"You let me down, you big bully!\" squalled Cyril, bellowing with\nimpotent fury. \"You let me down! I--\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" assented the Master, lowering him to the floor. \"I didn't\nhurt you. I only held you so you couldn't run out of the room, before\nI'd finished speaking; as you did, the time I caught you putting red\npepper on Lad's food. He--\"\n\n\"You wouldn't dare touch me, if my folks were here, you big bully!\"\nscreeched the child, in a veritable mania of rage; jumping up and down\nand actually foaming at the mouth. \"But I'll tell 'em on you! See if I\ndon't! I'll tell 'em how you slung me around and said I was worsen a\ndirty dog like Lad. And Daddy'll lick you for it. See if he don't! He--\"\n\nThe Master could not choke back a laugh; though the poor Mistress\nlooked horribly distressed at the maniac outburst, and strove\nsoothingly to check it. She, like the Master, remembered now that\nCyril's doting mother had spoken of the child's occasional fits of red\nwrath. But this was the first glimpse either of them had had of these.\nHitherto, craft had served Cyril's turn better than fury.\n\nAt sound of the Master's unintentional laugh the unfortunate child went\nquite beside himself in his transport of rage.\n\n\"I won't stay in your nasty old house!\" he shrieked. \"I'm going to the\nvery first house I can find. And I'm going to tell 'em how you hammered\na little feller that hasn't any folks here to stick up for him. And\nI'll get 'em to take me in and send a tel'gram to Daddy and Mother to\ncome save me. I--\"\n\nTo the astonishment of both his hearers, Cyril broke off chokingly in\nhis yelled tirade; caught up a bibelot from the table, hurled it with\nall his puny force at Lad, the innocent cause of the fracas; and then\nrushed from the room and from the house.\n\nThe Mistress stared after him, dumfounded; his howls and the jarring\nslam of the house door echoing direfully in her ears. It was the Master\nwho ended the instant's hush of amaze.\n\n\"Whenever I've heard a grown man say he wished he was a boy again,\" he\nmused, \"I always set him down for a liar. But, for once in my life, I\nhonestly wish I was a boy, once more. A boy one day younger and one\ninch shorter and one pound lighter than Cyril. I'd follow him out of\ndoors, yonder, and give him the thrashing of his sweet young life.\nI'd--\"\n\n\"Oh, do call him back!\" begged the Mistress. \"He'll catch his death of\ncold, and--\"\n\n\"Why will he?\" challenged the Master, without stirring. \"For all his\nnoble rage, I noticed he took thought to grab up his cap and his\novercoat from the hall, as he wafted himself away. And he still had his\narctics on, from this afternoon. He won't--\"\n\n\"But suppose he should really go over to one of the neighbors,\" urged\nthe Mistress, \"and tell such an awful story as he threatened to? Or\nsuppose--\"\n\n\"Not a chance!\" the Master reassured her. \"Now that the summer people\nare away, there isn't an occupied house within half a mile of here. And\nhe's not going to trudge a half-mile through the snow, in this bitter\ncold, for the joy of telling lies. No, he's down at the stables or else\nhe's sneaked in through the kitchen; the way he did that other time\nwhen he made a grandstand exit after I'd ventured to lecture him on his\ngeneral rottenness. Remember how worried about him you were, that time;\ntill we found him sitting in the kitchen and pestering the maids? He--\"\n\n\"But that time, he was only sulky,\" said the Mistress. \"Not insanely\nangry, as he is now. I do hope--\"\n\n\"Stop worrying!\" adjured the Master. \"He's all right.\"\n\nWhich proved, for perhaps the trillionth time in history, that a\nwoman's intuitions are better worth following than a man's saner logic.\nFor Cyril was not all right. And, at every passing minute he was less\nand less all right; until presently he was all wrong.\n\nFor the best part of an hour, in pursuance of her husband's counsel,\nthe Mistress sat and waited for the prodigal's return. Then,\nsurreptitiously, she made a round of the house; sent a man to ransack\nthe stables, telephoned to the gate lodge, and finally came into the\nMaster's study, big-eyed and pale.\n\n\"He isn't anywhere around,\" she reported, frightened. \"It's dinner\ntime. He's been gone in hour. Nobody's seen him. He isn't on the Place.\nOh, I wonder if--\"\n\n\"H'm!\" grumbled her husband. \"He's engineering an endurance contest,\neh? Well, if he can stand it, we can.\"\n\nBut at sight of the deepening trouble in his wife's face, he got up\nfrom his desk. Going out into the hall, he summoned Lad.\n\n\"We might shout our heads off,\" he said, \"and he'd never answer; if\nhe's really trying to scare us. That's part of his lovable nature.\nThere's just one way to track him, in double time. LAD!\"\n\nThe Master had been drawing on his mackinaw and hipboots as he spoke.\nNow he opened the front door.\n\n\"Laddie!\" he said, very slowly and incisively to the expectantly eager\ncollie. \"Cyril! Find CYRIL! FIND him!\"\n\nTo the super-wise collie, there was nothing confusing in the command.\nLike many another good dog, he knew the humans of the household by\ntheir names; as well as did any fellow-human. And he knew from long\nexperience the meaning of the word, \"Find!\"\n\nCountless times that word had been used in games and in earnest. Its\nsignificance, now, was perfectly plain to him. The Master wanted him to\nhunt for the obnoxious child who so loved to annoy and hurt him.\n\nLad would rather have found anyone else, at the Master's behest. But it\ndid not occur to the trained collie to disobey. With a visible\ndiminishing of his first eager excitement, but with submissive haste,\nthe big dog stepped out on to the veranda and began to cast about in\nthe drifts at the porch edge.\n\nImmediately, he struck Cyril's shuffling trail. And, immediately, he\ntrotted off along the course.\n\nThe task was less simple than ordinarily. For, the snow was coming down\nin hard-driven sheets; blotting out scent almost as effectively as\nsight. But not for naught had a thousand generations of Lad's\nthoroughbred ancestors traced lost sheep through snowstorms on the\nScottish moors. To their grand descendant they had transmitted their\nweird trailing power, to the full. And the scent of Cyril, though faint\nand fainter, and smothered under swirling snow, was not too dim for\nLad's sensitive nostrils to catch and hold it.\n\nThe Master lumbered along, through the rising drifts, as fast as he\ncould. But the way was rough and the night was as black dark as it was\ncold. In a few rods, the dog had far outdistanced him. And, knowing how\nhard must be the trail to follow by sense of smell, he forbore to call\nback the questing collie, lest Lad lose the clew altogether. He knew\nthe dog was certain to bark the tidings when he should come up with the\nfugitive.\n\nThe Master by this time began to share his wife's worry. For the trail\nLad was following led out of the grounds and across the highway, toward\nthe forest.\n\nThe newborn snowstorm was developing into a very promising little\nblizzard. And the icy lash of the wind proved the fallacy of the old\ntheory, \"too cold to snow.\" Even by daylight it would have been no\nlight task to steer a true course through the whirling and blinding\nstorm. In the darkness, the man found himself stumbling along with\ndrunkenly zigzag steps; his buffeted ears strained, through the noise\nof the wind for sound of Lad's bark.\n\nBut no such sound came to him. And, he realized that snow and adverse\nwinds can sometimes muffle even the penetrating bark of a collie. The\nman grew frightened. Halting, he shouted with all the power of his\nlungs. No whimper from Cyril answered the hail. Nor, at his master's\nsummons, did Lad come bounding back through the drifts. Again and\nagain, the Master called.\n\nFor the first time in his obedient life, Lad did not respond to the\ncall. And the Master knew his own voice could not carry, for a single\nfurlong, against wind and snowfall.\n\n\"I'll go on for another half-hour,\" he told himself, as he sought to\ndiscern the dog's all-but obliterated footsteps through the deepening\nsnow. \"And then I'll go back and raise a search party.\"\n\nHe came to a bewildered stop. Fainter and more indistinguishable had\nLad's floundering tracks become. Now,--by dint of distance and\nsnow,--they ceased to be visible in the welter of drifted whiteness\nunder the glare of the Master's flashlight.\n\n\"This means a search-party,\" decided the man.\n\nAnd he turned homeward, to telephone for a posse of neighbors.\n\nLad, being only a dog, had no such way of sharing his burden. He had\nbeen told to find the child. And his simple code of life and of action\nleft him no outlet from doing his duty; be that duty irksome or easy.\nSo he kept on. Far ahead of the Master, his keen ears had not caught\nthe sound of the shouts. The gale and the snow muffled them and drove\nthem back into the shouter's throat. Cyril, naturally, had not had the\nremotest intent of laboring through the bitter cold and the snow to the\nhouse of any neighbor; there to tell his woeful tale of oppression. The\nsemblance of martyrdom, without its bothersome actuality, was quite\nenough for his purpose. Once before, at home, when his father had\nadministered a mild and much-needed spanking, Cyril had made a like\nthreat; and had then gone to hide in a chum's home, for half a day;\nreturning to find his parents in agonies of remorse and fear, and ready\nto load him with peace-offerings. The child saw no reason why the same\ntactics should not serve every bit as triumphantly, in the present case.\n\nHe knew the maids were in the kitchen and at least one man was in the\nstables. He did not want his whereabouts to be discovered before he\nshould have been able to raise a healthy and dividend-bringing crop of\nremorse in the hearts of the Mistress and the Master, so he resolved to\ngo farther afield.\n\nIn the back of the meadow, across the road, and on the hither side of\nthe forest, was a disused cattle-barrack, with two stalls under its\nroof-pile of hay. The barrack was one of Cyril's favorite playhouses.\nIt was dry and tight. Through his thick clothing he was not likely to\nbe very cold, there, for an hour or two. He could snuggle down in the\nwarm hay and play Indians, with considerable comfort; until such time\nas the fright and penitence of his hosts should have come to a climax\nand make his return an ovation.\n\nMeanwhile, it would be fun to picture their uneasiness and fear for his\nsafety; and to visualize their journeyings through the snow to the\nhouses of various neighbors, in search of the lost child.\n\nBuoyed up by such happy thoughts as these, Cyril struck out at a lively\npace for the highroad and into the field beyond. The barrack, he knew,\nlay diagonally across the wide meadow, and near the adjoining woods.\nFive minutes of tramping through the snow ought to bring him to it. And\nhe set off, diagonally.\n\nBut, before he had gone a hundred yards, he lost his first zest in the\nadventure. The darkness had thickened; and the vagrant wind-gusts had\ntightened into a steady gale; a gale which carried before it a blinding\nwrack of stingingly hard-driven snow.\n\nThe gray of the dying dusk was blotted out. The wind smote and battered\nthe spindling child. Mechanically, he kept on for five or six minutes,\nmaking scant and irregular progress. Then, his spirit wavered. Splendid\nas it would be to scare these hateful people, there was nothing\nsplendid in the weather that numbed him with cold and took away his\nbreath and half-blinded him with snow.\n\nWhat was the fun of making others suffer; if he himself were suffering\ntenfold more? And, on reaching the barrack, he would have all that\nfreezing and blast-hammering trip back again. Aw, what was the use?\n\nAnd Cyril came to a halt. He had definitely abandoned his high\nenterprise. Turning around, he began to retrace his stumbling steps.\nBut, at best, in a large field, in a blizzard and in pitch darkness,\nand with no visible landmarks, it is not easy to double back on one's\nroute, with any degree of accuracy. In Cyril's case, the thing was\nwholly impossible.\n\nBlindly, he had been traveling in an erratic half-circle. Another\nminute of walking would have brought him to the highroad, not far from\nthe Place's gateway. And, as he changed his course, to seek the road,\nhe moved at an obtuse angle to his former line of march.\n\nThus, another period of exhausting progress brought him up with a bump\nagainst a solid barrier. His chilled face came into rough contact with\nthe top rail of a line fence.\n\nSo relieved was the startled child by this encounter that he forgot to\nwhine at the abrasion wrought upon his cheek by the rail. He had begun\nto feel the first gnawings of panic. Now, at once, he was calm again.\nFor he knew where he was. This was the line fence between the Place's\nupper section and the land of the next neighbor.\n\nAll he need do was to walk along in the shelter of it, touching the\nrails now and then to make certain of not straying, until he should\ncome out on the road, at the gate lodge. It was absurdly easy; compared\nto what he had been undergoing. Besides, the lee of the fence afforded\na certain shelter from wind and snow. The child realized he had been\nturned about in the dark; and had been going in the wrong direction.\nBut now, at last, his course seemed plain to him.\n\nSo he set off briskly, close to the fence;--and directly away from the\nnearby road.\n\nFor another half-hour he continued his inexplicably long tramp; always\nbuoyed up by the hope of coming to the road in a few more steps; and\ndoggedly sure of his bearings. Then, turning out from the fence, in\norder to skirt a wide hazel thicket, he tripped over an outcrop of\nrock, and tumbled into a drift. Getting to his feet, he sought to\nregain the fence; but the fall had shaken his senses and he floundered\noff in the opposite direction. After a rod or two of such futile\nplunging, a stumbling step took him clean off the edge of the world,\nand into the air.\n\nAll this, for the merest instant. Then, he landed with a jounce in a\nheap of brush and dead leaves. Squatting there, breathless, he\nstretched out his mittened hand, along the ground. At the end of less\nthan another yard of this exploring, his fingers came again to the edge\nof the world and were thrust out over nothingness.\n\nWith hideous suddenness, Cyril understood where he was; and what had\nhappened to him and why. He knew he had followed the fence for a full\nmile, AWAY from the road; through the nearer woods, and gradually\nupward until he had come the line of hazels on the lip of the\nninety-foot ravine which dipped down into a swamp-stretch known as\n\"Pancake Hollow.\"\n\nThat was what he had done. In trying to skirt the hazels, he had\nstepped over the cliff-edge, and had dropped five feet or more to a\nrather narrow ledge that juts out over the ravine.\n\nWell did he remember this ledge. More than once, on walks with the\nMistress and the Master, he had paused to look down on it and to think\nfun it would be to imprison someone there and to stand above, guying\nthe victim. It had been a sweet thought. And now, he, himself, was\nimprisoned there.\n\nBut for luck, he might have fallen the whole ninety feet; for the ledge\ndid not extend far along the face of the cliff. At almost any other\nspot his tumble might have meant--\n\nCyril shuddered a little; and pursued the grisly theme no further. He\nwas safe enough, till help should come. And, here, the blast of the\nwind did not reach him. Also, by cuddling low in the litter of leaves\nand fallen brush, he could ward off a little of the icy cold.\n\nHe crouched there; shaking and worn out. He was only eleven. His\nfragile body had undergone a fearful hour of toil and hardship. As he\nwas drawing in his breath for a cry to any chance searchers, the boy\nwas aware of a swift pattering, above his head. He looked up. The sky\nwas shade or two less densely black than the ravine edge. As Cyril\ngazed in terror, a shaggy dark shape outlined itself against the\nsky-line, just above him.\n\nHaving followed the eccentric footsteps of the wanderer, with great and\ngreater difficulty, to the fence-lee where the tracing was much easier,\nLad came to the lip of the ravine a bare five minutes after the child's\ndrop to the ledge.\n\nThere, for an instant, the great dog stood; ears cocked, head\ninquiringly on one side; looking down upon the ledge. Cyril shrank to a\nquivering little heap of abject terror, at sight of the indistinct\nanimal shape looming mountain-high above.\n\nThis for the briefest moment. Then back went Lad's head in a pealing\nbark that seemed to fill the world and to reecho from a myriad\ndirections at once. Again and again, Lad gave clamorous voice to his\ndiscovery of the lost child.\n\nOn a clear or windless night, his racket must have penetrated to the\ndullest ears at the Place, and far beyond. For the bark of a dog has\nmore carrying power than has any other sound of double its volume. But,\nin the face of a sixty-mile gale laden with tons of flying snow, the\nreport of a cannon could scarce have carried over the stretch of\nwindswept ground between the ravine and the Place.\n\nLad seemed to understand this. For, after a dozen thunderous barks, he\nfell silent; and stood again, head on one side, in thought.\n\nAt first sound of the barking, Cyril had recognized the dog. And his\nterror had vanished. In its place surged a peevish irritation against\nthe beast that had so frightened him. He groped for a rock-fragment to\nhurl up at the rackety collie.\n\nThen, the child paused in his fumbling. The dog had scant reason to\nlove him or to seek his society. Of late, Lad had kept out of his way\nas much as possible. Thus it was not likely the collie had come here of\nhis own accord, on such a night; for the mere joy of being with his\ntormentor.\n\nHis presence must mean that the Master was close behind; and that the\nwhole Place was in a ferment of anxiety about the wanderer. By stoning\nLad away and checking the barks, Cyril might well prevent the searchers\nfrom finding him. Too weak and too numb with cold to climb up the\nfive-foot cliff-face to the level ground above, he did not want to miss\nany chance for rescue.\n\nHence, as Lad ceased to bark, the child set up a yell, with all his\nslight lung-power, to attract the seekers' notice. He ordered Lad to\n\"Speak!\" and shook his fist angrily at the dog, when no answering bark\nfollowed.\n\nDespairing of making anyone hear his trumpeting announcement that he\nhad found the child, Lad presently made up his mind as to the only\ncourse that remained. Wheeling about, head down, he faced the storm\nagain; and set off at what speed he could compass, toward home, to lead\nthe Master to the spot where Cyril was trapped. This seemed the only\nexpedient left. It was what he had done, long ago, when Lady had caught\nher foot in a fox-trap, back in the woods.\n\nAs the dog vanished from against the gray-black sky-line, Cyril set up\na howl of wrathful command to him to come back. Anything was better\nthan to be in this dreary spot alone. Besides, with Lad gone, how could\nLad's Master find the way to the ledge?\n\nTwice the child called after the retreating collie. And, in another few\nsteps, Lad had halted and begun to retrace his way toward the ledge.\n\nHe did not return because of Cyril's call. He had learned, by ugly\nexperience, to disregard the child's orders. They were wont to mean\nmuch unpleasantness for him. Nevertheless, Lad halted. Not in obedience\nto the summons; but because of a sound and a scent that smote him as he\nstarted to gallop away. An eddy of the wind had borne both to the dog's\nacute senses.\n\nStiffening, his curved eyeteeth baring themselves, his hackles\nbristling, Lad galloped back to the ravine-lip; and stood there\nsniffing the icy air and growling deep in his throat. Looking down to\nthe ledge he saw Cyril was no longer its sole occupant. Crouched at the\nopening of a crevice, not ten feet from the unseeing child, was\nsomething bulky and sinister;--a mere menacing blur against the darker\nrock.\n\nCrawling home to its lair, supper-less and frantic with hunger, after a\nday of fruitless hunting through the dead forest world, a giant wildcat\nhad been stirred from its first fitful slumber in the ledge's crevice\nby the impact of the child upon the heap of leaves. The human scent had\nstartled the creature and it had slunk farther back into  the crevice.\nThe more so when the bark and inimical odor of a big dog were added to\nthe shattering of the ravine's solitude.\n\nThen the dog had gone away. Curiosity,--the besetting trait of the cat\ntribe,--had mastered the crevice's dweller. The wildcat had wriggled\nnoiselessly forward a little way, to learn what manner of enemy had\ninvaded its lair. And, peering out, it had beheld a spindling child; a\nhuman atom, without strength or weapon.\n\nFear changed to fury in the bob-cat's feline heart. Here was no\nopponent; but a mere item of prey. And, with fury, stirred\nlong-unsatisfied hunger; the famine hunger of mid-winter which makes\nthe folk of the wilderness risk capture or death by raiding guarded\nhencoops.\n\nOut from the crevice stole the wildcat. Its ears were flattened close\nto its evil head. Its yellow eyes were mere slits of fire. Its claws\nunsheathed themselves from the furry pads,--long, hooked claws, capable\nof disemboweling a grown deer at one sabre-stroke of the muscular\nhindlegs. Into the rubble and litter of the ledge the claws sank, and\nreceded, in rhythmic motion.\n\nThe compact yellow body tightened into a ball. The back quivered. The\nfeet braced themselves. The cat was gauging its distance and making\nready for a murder-spring. Cyril, his head turned the other way, was\nstill peering up along the cliff-edge for sight of Lad.\n\nThis was what Lad's scent and hearing,--and perhaps something\nelse,--had warned him of, in that instant of the wind's eddying shift.\nAnd this was the scene he looked down upon, now, from the ravine-lip,\nfive feet above.\n\nThe collie brain,--though never the collie heart,--is wont to flash\nback, in moments of mortal stress, to the ancestral wolf. Never in his\nown life had Sunnybank Lad set eyes on a wildcat. But, in the primal\nforests, wolf and bob-cat had perforce met and clashed, a thousand\ntimes. There they had begun and had waged the eternal cat-and-dog feud,\nof the ages.\n\nAncestry now told Lad that there is perhaps no more murderously\ndangerous foe than an angry wildcat. Ancestry also told him a wolf's\none chance of certain victory in such a contest. Ancestry's aid was not\nrequired, to tell him the mortal peril awaiting this human child who\nhad so grievously and causelessly tormented him. But the great loyal\nheart, in this stark moment, took no thought of personal grudges. There\nwas but one thing to do,--one perilous, desperate chance to take; if\nthe child were to be saved.\n\nThe wildcat sprang.\n\nSuch a leap could readily have carried it across double the space which\nlay between it and Cyril. But not one-third of that space was covered\nin the lightning pounce.\n\nFrom the upper air,--apparently from nowhere,--a huge shaggy body\nlaunched itself straight downward. As unerringly as the swoop of an\neagle, the down-whizzing bulk flew. It smote the leaping wildcat, in\nmid-flight.\n\nA set of mighty jaws,--jaws that could crack a beef-bone as a man\ncracks a filbert,--clove deep and unerringly into the cat's back, just\nbehind the shoulders. And those jaws flung all their strength into the\nravening grip.\n\nA squall,--hideous in its unearthly clangor,--split the night silences.\nThe maddened cat whirled about, spitting and yowling; and set its\nfoaming teeth in the dog's fur-armored shoulder. But before the\nterrible curved claws could be called into action, Lad's rending jaws\nhad done their work upon the spine.\n\nTo the verge of the narrow ledge the two combatants had rolled in their\nunloving embrace. Its last lurch of agony carped the stricken wildcat\nover the edge and out the ninety-foot drop into the ravine. Lad was\nall-but carried along with his adversary. He clawed wildly with his\ntoes for a purchase on the smooth cliff wall; over which his\nhindquarters had slipped. For a second he hung, swaying, above the\nabyss.\n\nCyril, scared into semi-insanity by sight of the sudden brief battle,\nhad caught up a stick from the rubbish at his feet. With this, not at\nall knowing what he did, he smote the struggling Lad with every atom of\nhis feeble force, over the head.\n\nLuckily for the gallant dog, the stick was rotten. It broke, in the\nblow; but not before its impact had well-nigh destroyed Lad's\nprecarious balance.\n\nOne clawing hindfoot found toe-room in a flaw of rock. A tremendous\nheave of all his strained muscles; and Lad was scrambling to safety on\nthe ledge.\n\nCyril's last atom of vigor and resistance had gone into that panic blow\nat the dog. Now, the child had flung himself helplessly down, against\nthe wall of the ledge; and was weeping in delirious hysterics.  Lad\nmoved over to him; hesitated a moment, looking wistfully upward at the\nsolid ground above. Then, he seemed to decide which way his duty\npointed. Lying down beside the freezing child, he pressed his great\nshaggy body close to Cyril's; protecting him from the swirling snow and\nfrom the worst of the cold.\n\nThe dog's dark, deep-set eyes roved watchfully toward the crevice,\nalert for sign of any other marauder that might issue forth. His own\nshaggy shoulder was hurting him, annoyingly, from the wildcat's bite.\nBut to this he gave no heed. Closer yet, he pressed his warm, furry\nbody to the ice-cold youngster; fending off the elements as valorously\nas he had fended off the wildcat.\n\nThe warmth of the great body began to penetrate Cyril's numbed senses.\nThe child snuggled to the dog, gratefully. Lad's pink tongue licked\ncaressingly at the white face; and the collie whimpered crooning\nsympathy to the little sufferer.\n\nSo, for a time the dog and the child lay there; Cyril's numb body\nwarming under the contact.\n\nThen, at a swift intake of the windy air, Lad's whimper changed to a\nthunder of wild barking. His nostrils had told him of the search\nparty's approach, a few hundred yards to the windward.\n\nTheir dispiritingly aimless hunt changing into a scrambling rush in the\ndirection whence came the faint-heard barks, the searchers trooped\ntoward the ledge.\n\n\"Here we are!\" shrilled the child, as the Master's halloo sounded\ndirectly above. \"Here we are! Down here! A--a  lion tackled us, awhile\nback. But we licked him;--I and  Laddie!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. The Juggernaut\n\nLong shadows were stretching lazily athwart the lawn from the gnarled\nold giant trees. Over the whole drowsing world brooded the solemn hush\nof late summer afternoon.\n\nAn amber light hung in the sleepy air; touching with gold the fire-blue\nlake, the circle of lovingly protecting green hills; the emerald slope\nwhich billowed up from the water-edge to the red-roofed gray house in\nits setting of ancient oaks.\n\nOn the bare flooring, in the coolest corner of the veranda, two collies\nlay sprawled. They were fast asleep; which means that they were ready\nto come back to complete wakefulness at the first untoward sound.\n\nOf the two slumbrous collies, one was slenderly graceful of outline;\ngold-and-white of hue. She was Lady; imperious and temperamental wisp\nof thoroughbred caninity.\n\nThe second dog had been crowded out of the shadiest spot of the\nveranda, by his mate; so that a part of his burnished mahogany coat was\nunder the direct glare of the afternoon sun. Shimmering orange tints\nblazed back the reflection of the torrid light.\n\nHe was Sunnybank Lad; eighty-pound collie; tawny and powerful; with\nabsurdly tiny white forepaws and with a Soul looking out from his\ndeep-set dark eyes. Chum and housemate he was to his two human gods;--a\ndog, alone of all worshipers, having the privilege of looking on the\nface of his gods and of communing with them without the medium of\npriest or of prayer.\n\nLady, only, of the Place's bevy of Little People, refused from earliest\npuppyhood to acknowledge Lad's benevolent rulership. She bossed and\nteased and pestered him, unmercifully. And Lad not only let her do all\nthis, but he actually reveled in it. She was his mate. More,--she was\nhis idol. This idolizing of one mate, by the way, is far less uncommon\namong dogs than we mere humans realize.\n\nThe summer afternoon hush was split by the whirring chug of a\nmotor-car; that turned in from the highroad, two hundred yards beyond\nthe house, and started down through the oak grove, along the winding\ndriveway. Immediately, Lady was not only awake, but on her feet, and in\nmotion. A furry gold-white whirlwind, she flashed off of the\nvine-shaded veranda and tore at top speed up the hill to meet the\ncoming car.\n\nNo, it was not the Mistress and the Master whose approach stirred the\nfiery little collie to lightning activity. Lad knew the purr of the\nPlace's car and he could distinguish it from any other, as far as his\nsensitive ears could catch its sound. But to Lady, all cars were alike;\nand all were signals for wild excitement.\n\nLike too many other collies, she had a mania for rushing at any motor\nvehicle, and for whizzing along beside it, perilously close to its\nfast-moving wheels, barking and screaming hysterically and bounding\nupward at its polished sides.\n\nNor had punishment and scolding cured her of the trait. She was an\naddict at car-chasing. She was wholly incurable. There are such dogs.\nSoon or late, many of them pay high for the habit.\n\nIn early days, Lad also had dashed after motors. But a single sharp\nlecture from the Master had taught him that this was one of the direst\nbreaches of the Place's simple Law. And, thenceforth,--though he might\ntremble with eagerness,--he stood statue-still when an automobile spun\ntemptingly past him.\n\nMore,--he had cured pup after pup, at the Place, of car-chasing. But\nLady he could not cure; though he never gave up the useless attempt.\n\nDown the drive came a delivery truck; driven fast and with none too\ngreat skill. Before it had covered half the distance between gate and\nhouse, Lady was alongside. A wheel grazed her shoulder fur as, deftly,\nshe slipped from in front of the vehicle and sprang up at its tonneau.\nWith a ceaseless fanfare of barks,--delirious in her excitement,--she\ncircled the car; springing, dodging, wheeling.\n\nThe delivery boy checked speed and shouted futile warnings to the\ninsane collie. As he slowed down a bit on the steep grade, Lady hurled\nherself in front of the machine, as though taunting it for cowardice in\nabating its hot pace on her account.\n\nAgain and again had she run, head on, at advancing cars. It seemed to\ndelight her when such cars slackened speed or swerved, in order not to\nkill her.\n\nNow, as she whizzed backward, her vibrant muzzle a bare six inches from\nthe shiny buffer, one of her flying feet slipped in a mud rut. Her\nbalance gone, she tumbled.\n\nA collie down is a collie up, in less than a second. But there was\nstill less than a second's space between to overthrown Lady and the\ncar's front wheels.\n\nThe boy slammed on the emergency brake. Through his mind ran the\nformless thought of his fate at the hands of his employer when he\nshould return to the store with tidings that he had run over and killed\na good customer's costly collie; and on the customer's own grounds.\n\nIn that single breathless instant, a huge mahogany-and-snow shape\nflashed forward, into the path of the machine.\n\nLad, following his mate, had tried to shoulder her aside and to herd\nher too far back from the drive for any possible return to the danger\nzone, until the car should have passed. More than once, at other times,\nhad he done this. But, today, she had eluded his mighty shoulder and\nhad flung herself back to the assault.\n\nAs she fell, she rolled over, twice, from her own momentum. The second\nrevolution left her directly in front of the skidding wheels. One of\nthem had actually touched her squirming spine; when white teeth gripped\nher by the scruff of the neck. Those teeth could crush a mutton-bone as\na child cracks a peanut. But, on Lady, today, their power was exerted\nonly to the extent of lifting her, in one swift wrench, clear of the\nground and high in air.\n\nThe mischievous collie flew through space like a lithe mass of golden\nfluff; and came to earth, in a heap, at the edge of the drive; well\nclear of the menacing wheels. With Lad, it fared otherwise.\n\nThe great dog had braced himself, with all his might, for the\nmuscle-wrenching heave. Wherefore, he had no chance to spring clear, in\ntime to avoid the car. This, no doubt, he had realized, when he sprang\nto his adored mate's rescue. For Lad's brain was uncanny in its\ncleverness. That same cleverness, more likely than mere chance,--now\ncame to his own aid.\n\nThe left front wheel struck him and struck him fair. It hit his massive\nshoulder, dislocating the joint and knocking the eighty-pound dog prone\nto earth, his ruff within an inch of the wheel. There was no time to\ngather his feet under him or to coerce the dislocated shoulder into\ndoing its share toward lifting him in a sideways spring that should\ncarry him out of the machine's way. There was but one thing Lad could\ndo. And he did it.\n\nHis body in a compact bunch, he rolled midway between the wheels;\nmaking the single revolution at a speed the eye could scarce follow,--a\nspeed which jerked him from under the impending left wheel which\nalready had smitten him down.\n\nOver him slid the wheel-locked car, through the mud of a recent rain;\nwhile the boy clung to the emergency brake and yelled.\n\nOver him and past him skidded the car. It missed the prostrate\ndog,--missed him with all four wheels; though the rear axle's housing\nsmeared his snowy ruff with a blur of black grease.\n\nOn went the machine for another ten feet, before it could halt. Then a\nchalk-faced delivery boy peered backward in fright,--to see Lad getting\npainfully to his feet and holding perplexedly aloft his tiny right\nforepaw in token of the dislocated shoulder.\n\nThe delivery boy saw more. In a swirl of black bad temper, Lady had\ngathered herself up from the ditch where Lad's toss had landed her.\nWithout a moment's pause she threw herself upon the luckless dog whose\nrough toss had saved her life. Teeth aglint, growling ferociously, she\ndug her fangs into the hurt shoulder and slung her whole weight forward\nin the bite.\n\nThus was it the temperamental Lady's wont to punish real or fancied\ninjuries from the Place's other animals,--and from humans as well,\nexcept only the Mistress and the Master. She charged first, and did her\nthinking afterward. Apparently, her brain, just then, could hold no\nimpression except that her interfering mate had picked her up by the\nneck-scruff and had thrown her, head over heels, into a ditch. And such\ntreatment called for instant penalty.\n\nUnder her fifty-pound impact, poor Lad's three-cornered balance gave\nway. Down he went in an awkward heap; while Lady snarled viciously and\nsnapped for his momentarily exposed throat. Lad turned his head aside\nto guard the throat; but he made no move to resent this ungrateful\nonslaught; much less to fight back. Which was old Lad's way,--with Lady.\n\nDislocated shoulder or not, he would have flown at any male dog that\nassailed him; and would have made the aggressor fight for dear life.\nBut his mate was sacred. And he merely protected his throat and let her\nnip agonizingly at his ears and paws; until her brief flurry of wrath\nshould be past.\n\nA shout from the veranda,--whither the racket had drawn the Master from\nhis study,--put a sudden stop to Lady's brainstorm. Obedience was the\nfirst and foremost rule drilled into the Little People of the Place.\nAnd, from puppy days, the collies were taught to come,--and to come at\na run,--at call from the Mistress or the Master.\n\nLady, with no good grace, desisted from her punitive task, and galloped\ndown the drive to the house. Lad, rising with difficulty, followed; as\nfast as a three-legged gait would permit. And behind them chugged the\ndelivery boy, bawling explanations.\n\nA sharp word of reproof sent Lady skulking into a corner; anger\nforgotten in humiliation at the public rebuke. The Master paid no heed\nto her. Running up the drive, he met Lad, and picked up the suffering\ncollie in his arms. Carrying him into the study, the Master gave first\naid to the serious dislocation; then phoned for the nearest good vet.\n\nAs he left the study, to telephone, he encountered Lady, very woebegone\nand cringing, at the door. When he returned, he beheld the remorseful\nlittle gold-and-white vixen licking her mate's hurt shoulder and\nwagging a propitiatory tail in plea for forgiveness from the dog she\nhad bitten and from the Master whose Law she had broken by her attack\non the car.\n\nAlways, after her brief rages, Lady was prettily and genuinely\nrepentant and eager to make friends again. And, as ever, Lad was\nmeeting her apologies more than half-way;--absurdly blissful at her\ndainty attentions.\n\nIn the days that followed, Lady at first spent the bulk of her time\nnear her lame mate. She was unusually gentle and affectionate with him;\nand seemed trying to make up to him for the enforced idleness of\nstrained sinews and dislocated joint. In her friendliness and\nattention, Lad was very, very happy.\n\nThe vet had bandaged his shoulder and had anointed it with pungently\nsmelly medicines whose reek was disgusting and even painful to the\nthoroughbred's supersensitive nostrils. Moreover, the vet had left\norders that Lad be made to keep quiet until the hurt should heal; and\nthat he risk no setback by undue exertion of any sort. It was sweet to\nlie in the Master's study,--one white forepaw or the great shapely head\nlaid lovingly on the man's hiking boot; and with an occasional pat or a\nfriendly word from his deity, as the latter pounded away on a clicky\ntypewriter whose jarring noise Lad had long ago taught himself to\ntolerate.\n\nSweeter it was to be made much of and \"poored\" by the Mistress; and to\nhave her light hands adjust his bandages; and to hear her tell him what\na dear dog he was and praise his bravery in rescuing Lady.\n\nPerhaps sweetest of all, in those early days of convalescence, was the\namazing solicitude of Lady herself; and her queerly maternal tenderness\ntoward him.\n\nBut, as the summer days dreamed themselves away and Lad's splendid\nhealth brought him nearer and nearer to recovery, Lady waxed restive\nunder the long strain of indolence and of good temper. Lad had been her\ncompanion in the early morning rambles through the forest, back of the\nPlace; in rabbit quests; in swims in the ice, cool lake at the foot of\nthe lawn; in romps on the smooth green grass and in a dozen of the\nactive pursuits wherein country-bred collies love to squander the\noutdoor days.\n\nLess and less did Lady content herself with dull attendance on the\nconvalescent. More and more often did she set forth without him on\nthose cross-country runs that had meant so much to them both. Lad would\nwatch her vanish up the drive,--their fiery little son, Wolf, cantering\ngleefully at her side. Then, his dark eyes full of sorrow, he would\ngaze at the Master and, with a sigh, would lie back on his rug--and\nwait.\n\nThere was something so human,--so uncomplainingly wretched,--in look\nand in sigh,--that the Master was touched by the big dog's loneliness\nand vexed at the flighty Lady's defection. Stooping down, at one such\ntime, he ran his hand over the beautiful silky head that rested against\nhis knee; and said in lame attempt at comfort:--\n\n\"Don't let it get under your skin, Laddie! She isn't worth it. One of\nyour honest paws is worth more than her whole fly-away body.--Not that\nanyone ever was loved because he or she was worthy!--You're up against\nthe penalty that is bound to get everybody with a soul, who is fool\nenough to love something or somebody without one . . . . We're going\nover for the mail,--the Mistress and I. Want to come along?\"\n\nAt once the melancholy in Lad's deep eyes gave place to puppy-like\nexultance.\n\nWhile, naturally, he did not understand one word in ten of the Master's\nfrequent prosy homilies to him, or of the Mistress's more melodious\nspeech, yet, from puppyhood, he had been talked to by both of them.\nAnd, as ever with a highbred collie, such constant conversation had\nborne ample fruit;--not only in giving the dog a startling\ncomprehension of voice-meanings, but also in teaching him to understand\nmany simple words and phrases.\n\nFor example, he recognized, as readily as would any five-year-old\nchild, this invitation to go motoring. And it banished the memory of\nLady's fickleness.\n\nThis morning, for the first time since his accident, Lad was able to\nspring into the car-tonneau, unaided. His hurt was all-but well.\nEnthroning himself in the precise center of the rear seat, he prepared\nto enjoy every inch of the ride.\n\nNo matter how long or how tedious were these jaunts, Lad never went to\nsleep or ceased to survey with eager attention the myriad details of\nthe trip. There was something half-laughable, half-pathetic, in his air\nof strained interest.\n\nOnly when the Mistress and the Master both chanced to leave the car at\nthe same time, at market or bank or postoffice, would Lad cease from\nthis genial and absorbed inspection of everything in sight. Left alone\nin the machine, he always realized at once that he was on guard. Head\non paws he would lie, intently scanning anyone who might chance to\npause near the auto; and, with a glint of curved white fang beneath\nsharply upcurled lip, warning away such persons as ventured too close.\n\nMarketing done, today, the trio from the Place started homeward. Less\nthan a quarter-mile from their own gateway, they heard the blaring honk\nof a motor horn behind them.\n\nWithin a second thereafter, a runabout roared past, the cut-out making\nechoes along the still road; and a poisonously choking cloud of dust\nwhirling aloft in the speedster's wake.\n\nThe warning honk had not given the Mistress time to turn out. Luckily\nshe was driving well on her own side of the none-too-wide road. As it\nwas, a sharp little jar gave testimony to the light touch of mudguards.\nAnd the runabout whizzed on.\n\n\"That's one of the speed-idiots who make an automobile an insult to\neverybody except its owner! The young fool!\" stormed the Master,\nglowering impotently at the other car, already a hundred yards ahead;\nand at the back of its one occupant, a sportily-clad youth in the early\ntwenties.\n\nA high-pitched yelping bark,--partly of dismay, partly of\nwarning,--from Lad, broke in on the Master's fuming remonstrance. The\nbig dog had sprung up from his rear seat cushion and, with forepaws\ngripping the back of the front seat, he was peering forward; his head\nand shoulders between the Mistress and the Master.\n\nNever before in all his rides had Lad so transgressed the rules of\nmotoring behavior as to thrust himself forward like this. A word of\nrebuke died on the Master's tongue; as the Mistress, with a gasp of\nfear, pointed ahead, in the path of the speeding runabout.\n\nLady and Wolf had had a jolly gallop through the summer woodlands. And\nat last they had turned their faces homeward; for the plunge in the\ncool lake which was wont to follow a hot weather run. Side by side they\njogged along, to the forest edge--and into the sixteen-acre meadow that\nstretches from forest to highway.\n\nA few rods on the far side of the road which separated the meadow from\nthe rest of the Place, Wolf paused to investigate a chipmunk hole. Lady\nwas more interested just then in splashing her hot body in the chill of\nthe lake than in exploring for hypothetical chipmunks.\n\nMoreover, her keen ears caught a sound which rapidly swept nearer and\nnearer. A motor-car with the muffler cut out was approaching, at a most\ngratifyingly high speed.\n\nThe noise was as martial music to Lady. The speed promised exhilarating\nsport. Her trot merged into a headlong run; and she dashed out into the\nroad.\n\nThe runabout was a bare fifty yards ahead of her, and it was coming on\nwith a speed which shook even Lady's excitement-craving nerves. Here,\nevidently, was a playmate which it would be safer to chase than to\nconfront head-on.\n\nIt was at this juncture, by the way, that Lad lurched forward from the\nrear seat and that the Mistress pointed in terror at the endangered\ncollie.\n\nLady, for once overawed by speed, leaped to one side of the road. Not\nfar, but leaving ample space for the driver to miss her by at least a\nyard. He had honked loudly, at sight of her. But, he had abated not an\natom of his fifty-mile-an-hour pace.\n\nWhether the man was rattled by the collie's antics,--whether he acted\nin sudden rage at her for startling him, whether he belonged to the\nfilthy breed of motorist who recites chucklingly the record of his\nkills,--he did not hold his midroad course.\n\nInstead,--still without checking speed,--he veered his machine slightly\nto the right; aiming the flying juggernaut directly at the\nmischievously-poised little collie who danced in imagined safety at the\nroad-edge.\n\nThe rest was horror.\n\nMerciful in its mercilessness, the hard-driven right front wheel smote\nthe silky golden head with a force that left no terrible instant of\nfear or of agony. More lucky by far than the myriad innocent and\nfriendly dogs that are left daily to scream out their lives writhingly\nin the wake of speeding motor-cars, Lady was killed at a single stroke.\n\nThe fluffy golden body was hurled far in front of its slayer; and the\nwheels struck it a second time. The force of the impact caused the\nrunabout to skid, perilously; and the youthful driver brought it to a\njarring and belated halt. Springing to the ground, he rolled the dead\ncollie's impeding body into the shallow wayside ditch, clear of his\nwheels. Then, scrambling aboard again, he jammed down the accelerator.\n\nLad had made a flying leap over the door of the Master's car. He struck\nground with a force which crumpled his healing right shoulder under\nhim. Heedless of the pain, he hurled himself forward, on three legs, at\nan incredible speed; straight for the runabout. His great head low, his\nformidable teeth agleam beneath drawn-back lips, his soft eyes\na-smolder with red flame, Lad charged.\n\nBut, for all his burst of speed, he was too late to avenge; even as he\nhad been too late to save. By the time he could reach the spot where\nLady lay crumpled and moveless in the ditch, the runabout had gathered\nfull speed and was disappearing down the bend of the highway.\n\nAfter it flew Lad, silent, terrible,--not stopping to realize that the\nfleetest dog,--even with all four of his legs in commission,--cannot\nhope to overhaul a motor-car driven at fifty miles an hour.\n\nBut, at the end of a furious quarter-mile, his wise brain took charge\nonce more of his vengeance-craving heart. He halted, snarled hideously\nafter the vanished car, and limped miserably back to the scene of the\ntragedy.\n\nThere, he found the Mistress sitting in the roadside dust, Lady's head\nin her lap. She was smoothing lovingly the soft rumpled fur; and was\ntrying hard not to cry over the inert warm mass of gold-and-white\nfluffiness which, two minutes earlier, had been a beautiful\nthoroughbred collie, vibrant with life and fun and lovableness.\n\nThe Master had risen from his brief inspection of his pet's fatal\ninjuries. Scowling down the road, he yearned to kick himself for his\nstupidity in failing to note the Juggernaut's number.\n\nHead and tail a-droop, Lad toiled back to where Lady was lying. A queer\nlow sound, strangely like a human sob, pulsed in his shaggy throat, as\nhe bent down and touched his dead mate's muzzle with his own. Then,\nhuddling close beside her, he reverted all at once to a trait of his\nancestors, a thousand generations back.\n\nSitting on his haunches and lifting his pointed nose to the summer sky,\nhe gave vent to a series of long-drawn wolf howls; horrible to hear.\nThere was no hint of a housebred twentieth century dog in his lament.\nIt was the death-howl of the primitive wolf;--a sound that sent an\ninvoluntary shiver through the two humans who listened aghast to their\nchum's awesome mourning for his lost mate.\n\nThe Master made as though to say something,--in comfort or in\ncorrection. The Mistress, wiser, motioned to him not to speak.\n\nIn a few seconds, Lad rose wearily to his feet; the spasm of primal\ngrief having spent itself. Once more he was himself; sedate, wise, calm.\n\nLimping over to where the car had halted so briefly, he cast about the\nground, after the manner of a bloodhound.\n\nPresently, he came to an abrupt halt. He had found what he sought. As\nmotionless as a bird-dog at point, he stood there; nose to earth,\nsniffing.\n\n\"What in blazes--?\" began the Master, perplexed.\n\nThe Mistress was keener of eye and of perception. She understood. She\nsaw the Lad's inhalingly seeking muzzle was steady above a faint mark\nin the road-dust;--the mark of a buckskin shoe's print. Long and\ncarefully the dog sniffed. Then, with heavy deliberation he moved on to\nthe next footprint and the next. The runabout's driver had taken less\nthan a half dozen steps in all; during his short descent to the ground.\nBut Lad did not stop until he had found and identified each and every\nstep.\n\n\"He knows!\" marveled the Mistress. \"He saw the brute jump down from his\ncar. And he has found his footsteps. He'll remember them, too.\"\n\n\"Little good it will do the poor chap!\" commented the Master. \"He can't\ntrack him, that way. Get aboard, won't you?\" he went on. \"I'll make Lad\ngo back into the tonneau again, too. Drive down to the house; and take\nLad indoors with you. Better telephone to the vet to come over and have\nanother look at his shoulder. He's wrenched it badly, in all that run.\nAnyway, please keep him indoors till--\"\n\nHe finished his sentence by a glance at Lady. At the Master's order,\nLad with sore reluctance left the body of his mate; whither he had\nreturned after his useless finding of the footmarks. He had just curled\nup, in the ditch, pressing close to her side; and again that unnatural\nsobbing sound was in his throat. On the Master's bidding, Lad crossed\nto the car and suffered himself to be lifted aboard. The Mistress\nstarted down the drive. As they went, Lad ever looked back, with\nsuffering despair in his dark eyes, at that huddle of golden fur at the\nwayside.\n\nThe Master carried the pitifully light armful to a secluded spot far\nbeyond the stables; and there he buried it. Then, satisfied that Lad\ncould not find his mate's grave, he returned to the house.\n\nHis heart was heavy with helpless wrath. Again and again, in the course\nof their drives, he and the Mistress had sickened at sight of mutely\neloquent little bodies left in mid-road or tossed in some\nditch,--testimony to the carelessness and callous hoggishness of\nautoists. Some few of these run-over dogs,--like poor Lady,--had of\ncourse tempted fate; spurred on by that strange craving which goaded\nthem to fly at cars. But the bulk of them had been strolling peacefully\nalong the highways or crossing to or from their own dooryards, when the\njuggernauts smashed them into torture or into instant death.\n\nThe Master reflected on the friendly country folk who pay taxes for the\nscenery and for the fine roads which make motoring so pleasant;--and on\nthe reward so many motorists bestow upon these rural hosts of theirs by\nwanton or heedless murder of pet animals. For the first time, he could\nunderstand how and why farmers are tempted to strew glass or tacks in\nthe road to revenge the slaying of a beloved dog.\n\nFor the next few days, until his shoulder was again in condition to\nbear his eighty-pound weight on it, Lad was kept indoors or on the\nveranda. As soon as he was allowed to go out alone, the big collie went\nstraight to the spot where last he had seen Lady's body. Thence, he a\nmade a careful detour of the Place,--seeking for--something. It was two\ndays before he found what he sought.\n\nIn the meantime,--as ever, since his mate's killing,--he ate\npractically nothing; and went about in a daze.\n\n\"He'll get over it presently,\" prophesied the Master, to soothe his\nwife's worry.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" returned the Mistress. \"Or perhaps not. Remember he's a\ncollie, and not just a human.\"\n\nOn the third day, Lad's systematic quartering of the Place brought him\nto the tiny new mound, far beyond the stables. Twice, he circled it.\nThen he lay down, very close beside it; his mighty head athwart the\nridge of upflung sod.\n\nThere,--having seen him from a distance,--the Master came across to\nspeak to him. But at sight of the man, the collie got up from his\nresting place and moved furtively away.\n\nTime after time, during the next week, the Master or the Mistress found\nhim lying there. And always, at their approach, he would get up and\ndepart. Nor did he go direct to the mound, on these pilgrimages; but by\ndevious paths; as though trying to shake off possible pursuit. No\nlonger did he spend the nights, as from puppyhood, in his beloved\n\"cave\" under the piano in the music room. On one pretext or another, he\nwould manage to slip out of the house, during the evening. Twice, in\ngray dawn, the Master found him crouched beside the mound, where,\nsleepless, he had lain all night.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master grew seriously troubled over their collie\nchum's continued grief. They thought, more than once, of sending him\naway to boarding kennels or to some friend, for a month or two; to\nremove him from the surroundings which made him so wretched. Oddly\nenough, his heartbreak struck neither of them as absurd.\n\nThey had made a long study of collie nature in all its million queer\nand half-human phases. They knew, too, that a grieving dog is upheld by\nnone of the supports of Faith nor of Philosophy; and that he lacks the\nwisdom which teaches the wondrous anaesthetic powers of Time. A\nsorrowing dog sorrows without hope.\n\nNor did Lad's misery seem ridiculous to the Place's many kindly\nneighbors; with whom the great dog was a favorite and who were\nrighteously indignant over the killing of Lady.\n\nThen in a single minute came the cure.\n\nOn Labor Day afternoon, the finals in a local tennis tournament were to\nbe played at the mile distant country club. The Mistress and the Master\nwent across to the tournament; taking Lad along. Not that there could\nbe anything of the remotest interest to a dog in the sight of flanneled\nyoung people swatting a ball back and forth. But Lad was a privileged\nguest at all outdoor functions; and he enjoyed being with his two\ndeities.\n\nThus, when the two climbed the clubhouse veranda, Lad was at their\nheels; pacing along in majestic unhappiness and not turning his\nbeautiful head in response to any of a dozen greetings flung at him.\nThe Mistress found a seat among a bevy of neighbors. Lad lay down,\ndecorously, at her feet; and refused to display the faintest interest\nin anything that went on around him.\n\nThe playing had not yet begun. New arrivals were drifting up the steps\nof the clubhouse. Car after car disgorged women in sport clothes and\nmen in knickerbockers or flannels. There was plenty of chatter and\nbustle and motion. Lad paid no heed to any of it.\n\nThen, up to the foot of the veranda steps jarred a flashy runabout;\ndriven by a flashier youth. At word from the policeman in charge he\nparked his car at the rear of the clubhouse among fifty others, and\nreturned on foot to the steps.\n\n\"That's young Rhuburger,\" someone was confiding to the Mistress. \"You\nmust have read about him. He was arrested as a Conscientious Objector,\nduring the war. Since then, his father has died, and left him all sorts\nof money. And he is burning it; in double handfuls. No one seems to\nknow just how he got into the club, here. And no one seems to--\"\n\nThe gossipy maundering broke off short; drowned in a wild beast growl.\n\nBoth the Mistress and her husband had been eyeing Rhuburger as he\nascended the veranda steps in all the glory of unbelievably exquisite\nand gaudy raiment. There seemed to both of them something vaguely\nfamiliar about the fellow; though neither could place him. But, to Lad,\nthere was nothing at all vague in his recollections of the gorgeous\nnewcomer.\n\nAs Rhuburger reached the topmost step, the collie lifted his head, his\nnostrils dilating wide. A thrill went through him. His nearsighted eyes\nswept the crowd. They rested at last on Rhuburger. Another deep\ninhalation told him all he needed to know. Not in vain had Lad sniffed\nso long and so carefully at those faint footprints in the road dust, at\nthe spot where Lady died. In his throat a deep growl was born.\n\n\"Hello, folks!\" Rhuburger was declaiming, to a wholly unenthusiastic\ncircle of acquaintances. \"Made another record, just now. The little\nboat spun me here from Montclair in exactly nineteen minutes.\nThat's--that's roughly an average rate of a mile in seventy-five\nseconds. Not so bad, eh? That car sure made a hit with ME, all right.\nNot so much of a hit, maybe, with a couple of chickens and a fat old\ndog that had the bad luck to be asleep in the middle of the--\"\n\nHis plangent brag was lost in a sound seldom heard on the hither side\nof jungle or zoo. From the group of slightly disgusted onlookers, a\nhuge and tawny shape burst forth; hurtling through the air, straight\nfor the fat throat of the boaster.\n\nRhuburger, by some heaven-sent instinct, flung up his arms to shield\nhis menaced jugular. He had no time to do more.\n\nLad's fury-driven eighty pounds of muscular weight crashed full against\nhis chest. Lad's terrible teeth, missing their throat-goal, drove deep\ninto the uplifted right forearm; shearing through imported tweed\ncoat-sleeve and through corded silken shirt, and through flabby flesh\nand clean to the very bone.\n\nThe dog's lion-roar blended with the panic-screeches of the victim.\nAnd, under that fearful impact, Rhuburger reeled back from the\nstairhead, and went crashing down the steps, to the broad stone\nflagging at the bottom.\n\nNot once, during that meteoric, shriek-punctured downward flight, did\nLad loose his grip on the torn forearm. But as the two struck the\nflagging at the bottom, he shifted his hold, with lightning speed;\nstabbing once more for the exposed jugular.\n\nHe lunged murderously at his mark. Yes, and this time he found it. His\nteeth had touched the pudgy throat, and began to cleave their\nremorseless way to the very life of the man who had slain Lady.\n\nBut, out of the jumble of cries and stamping feet and explosive shouts\nfrom the scared onlookers on the veranda above, one staccato yell\npierced the swirl of rage-mists in the avenging collie's brain.\n\n\"LAD!\" came the Master's sharp, scandalized mandate. \"LAD!!!\"\n\nHating the thought of desisting from his cherished revenge, the dog\nheard and heeded. With visible reluctance, he drew back from the\nslaughter; and turned his noble head to face the man who was running\ndown the steps toward him.\n\nLad knew well what he might expect, for this thing he had done. He knew\nthe Law. He knew, almost from birth, the courteous tolerance due to\nfolk among whom his deities took him. And now he had made an\nindustrious effort to kill one of these people.\n\nIt was no light offense for a dog to attack a human. Lad, like every\nwell-trained collie, knew that. His own death might well follow.\nIndeed, from the babel of voices on the veranda, squalling confusedly\nsuch hackneyed sentiments as \"Mad dog!\" and \"Get a gun!\" it seemed\nhighly probable that Lad was due to suffer full penalty, from the\nman-pack.\n\nYet he gave no heed to the clamor. Instead, turning slowly, he faced\nthe Master; ready for whatever might follow. But nothing\nfollowed,--nothing at least that he expected.\n\nThe Master simply commanded:--\n\n\"Down, Lad!\"\n\nAs the dog, obediently, dropped to the ground, the Master bent to\nexamine the groaning and maudlinly weeping Rhuburger. In this Samaritan\ntask he was joined by one or two of the club's more venturesome members\nwho had followed him down the steps.\n\nRhuburger was all-but delirious with fright. His throat was scored by\nthe first raking of Lad's teeth; but in the merest of flesh-wounds. The\nchewed arm was more serious; but no bone or tendon was injured. A\nfortnight of care would see it as good as new. By more or less of a\nmiracle, no bones had been broken and no concussion caused by the\nbackward dive down the flight of steps. There were bad bruises\na-plenty; but there was nothing worse.\n\nAs the Master and the few others who had descended the steps were\nworking over the fallen man, the Mistress checked the turmoil on the\nveranda. At Lad's leap, memory of this speed-mad motorist had rushed\nback to her.\n\nNow, tersely, for the benefit of those around, she was identifying him\nwith the killer of Lady; whose death had roused so much indignation in\nthe village. And, as she spoke, the people who had clamored loudest of\nmad dogs and who had called so frantically for a gun, waxed silent. The\nmyriad glances cast at the prostrate and blubbering Rhuburger were not\nloving. Someone even said, loudly:\n\n\"GOOD old Laddie!\"\n\nAs the Mistress and the Master were closing the house for the night, a\ncar came down the drive. Out of it stepped their friend of many years,\nMaclay, the local Justice of the Peace.\n\n\"Hello, Mac!\" hailed the Master. \"Here to take us all to jail for\nassault-and-battery; or just to serve a 'dangerous dog' notice on us?\"\n\nHe spoke lightly; but he was troubled. Today's escapade might well lead\nthe village law to take some cognizance of Lad's ferocious deed.\n\n\"No,\" laughed Maclay. \"Neither of those things. I'm here,\nunprofessionally. I thought you people might like to know a few things,\nbefore you go to bed. In the first place, the doctor patched up\nRhuburger's bites and took him home. He couldn't take him home in\nRhuburger's own car. For some of the tennis crowd had gotten at that.\nWhat they did to that $6,000 runabout was a crime! They stripped it of\neverything. They threw the carburetor and the wheels and the steering\ngear and a lot of other parts into the lake.\"\n\n\"WHAT?\"\n\n\"Then they left their cards pinned to the dismantled machine's\ncushions;--in case Rhuburger cares to go further into the matter. While\nthey were doing all that, the club's Governors had a hurry-call\nmeeting. And for once the Board was unanimous about something. It was\nunanimous--in expelling Rhuburger from the club. Then we--By the way,\nwhere's Laddie? Curled up by Lady's grave, as usual, I suppose? Poor\nold dog!\"\n\n\"No,\" denied the Mistress. \"He's asleep in his 'cave' under the piano.\nHe went there, of his own accord. And he ate a perfectly tremendous\nsupper, tonight. He's--he's CURED!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. In Strange Company\n\nLad was getting along in years.\n\nNot yet had age begun to claw at him; blearing the wondrous deep-set\ndark eyes and silvering the classic muzzle and broadening the shapely\nskull and stiffening the sweepingly free gait; dulling the sharp ears\nor doing any of the other pitiably tragic things that nature does to\nthe dog who is progressing in his teens. Those, humiliations were still\nwaiting for Lad, one by one; beyond the next Turn of the Road.\n\nYet the romp and the spirit of bubbling fun and the lavishly needless\nexercise--these were merging into sobriety. True, at rare times, with\nthe Mistress or the Master--especially with the Mistress, Lad would\nforget he was middle-aged and dignified; and would play like a crazy\npuppy. But, for the most part he had begun to carry his years a trifle\nseriously.\n\nHe was not yet in the winter or even the Indian Summer of his beautiful\nlife. But, at least, he had strolled into its early autumn.\n\nAnd this, be it well remembered, is the curse which Stepmother Nature\nplaced upon The Dog, when he elected to turn his back on his own kind,\nand to become the only one of the world's four-footed folk to serve Man\nof his own accord. To punish the Dog for this abnormality, Nature\ndecreed that his life should begin to fail, almost as soon as it had\nreached the glory of its early prime.\n\nA dog is not at his best, in mind or in body, until he has passed his\nthird year. And, before he nears the ten-year mark, he has begun to\ndecline. At twelve or thirteen, he is as decrepit as is the average\nhuman of seventy. And not one dog in a hundred can be expected to live\nto fourteen.\n\n(Lad, by some miracle, was destined to endure past his own sixteenth\nbirthday; a record seldom equaled among his race.)\n\nAnd so to our story:--\n\nWhen the car and the loaded equipment-truck drew up at the door, that\ngolden October day, Lad forgot his advancing years. In a moment, he was\nonce more a puppy. For he knew what it all meant. It did not need the\nadvent of the Mistress and the Master from the house, in rough outing\nclothes, nor the piling of duffle-bags and the like into the car's\ntonneau, to send Laddie into a transport of trumpeting and gyrations.\nThe first sight and sniff of the tents, rolled tight in the truck, had\ndone that. Lad understood. Lad always understood.\n\nThis gear meant the annual fall camping trip in the back reaches of the\nRamapo Mountains, some twenty-odd miles north of the Place; the\nfortnight of tent-life, of shooting, of fishing, of bracingly chill\nnights and white-misted dawns and of drowsily happy campfire evenings.\nIt meant all manner of adventure and fun for Lad.\n\nNow, on a fishing jaunt, the presence of any kind of dog is a\nliability; not an asset. A thousand dog-fancier fishermen can attest to\nthat. And, when humans are hunting any sort of game, a collie is\nseveral degrees worse than worthless.\n\nThus, Lad's usefulness, as a member of the party, was likely to be\nnegligible;--except in the matter of guarding camp and as an all-round\npal for the two campers.\n\nYet, as on former years, there was no question of leaving him at home.\nWhere the Mistress and the Master went, he went, too; whenever such a\nthing were possible. He was their chum. And they would have missed him\nas much as he would have missed them.\n\nWhich, of course, was an absurd way for two reasonably sane people to\nregard a mere dog. But, then, Lad was not a \"mere\" dog.\n\nThus it was that he took his place, by invitation, in the car's\ntonneau, amid a ruck of hand-luggage; as the camp-ward pilgrimage\nbegan. Ten miles farther on, the equipment truck halted to take aboard\na guide named Barret, and his boy; and their professionally reliable\nold Irish setter.\n\nThis setter had a quality, not over-common with members of his grand\nbreed; a trait which linked his career pathetically with that of a\nlivery-plug. He would hunt for anybody. He went through his day's work,\nin stubble or undergrowth, with the sad conscientiousness of an elderly\nbookkeeper.\n\nAway from the main road, and up a steadily rising byway that merged\ninto an axle-snapping mountain-track, toiled the cars; at last coming\nto a wheezy and radiator-boiling halt at the foot of a rock-summit so\nsteep that no vehicle could breast it. In a cup, at the summit of this\nmountain-top hillock, was the camp-site; its farther edge only a few\nyards above a little bass-populated spring-lake.\n\nThe luggage was hauled, gruntily, up the steep; and camp was pitched.\nThen car and truck departed for civilization. And the two weeks of\nwilderness life set in.\n\nIt was a wonderful time for old Lad. The remoteness and wild stillness\nof it all seemed to take him back, in a way, to the wolf-centuries of\nhis ancestors. It had been monstrous pleasant to roam the peaceful\nforest back of the Place. But there was a genuine thrill in exploring\nthese all-but manless woods; with their queer scents of wild things\nthat seldom ventured close to the ordained haunts of men.\n\nIt was exciting, to wake at midnight, beside the smoldering campfire,\nand to hear, above the industrious snoring, of the guide and his boy,\nthe stealthy forest noises; the pad-pad-pad of some wary prowler\ncircling at long range the twinkling embers; the crash of a far-off\nbuck; the lumbering of some bear down to the lake to drink. The almost\nmoveless sharp air carried a myriad fascinating scents which human\nnostrils were too gross to register; but which were acutely plain and\nunderstandable to the great dog.\n\nBest of all, in this outing, Lad's two deities, the Mistress and the\nMaster, were never busy at desk or piano, or too much tangled up with\nthe society of silly outsiders, to be his comrades and playmates. True,\nsometimes they hurt his supersensitive feelings most distressingly, by\ncalling to him: \"No, no, Laddie. Back! Watch camp'\" when he essayed to\njoin them as they set forth with rods over their shoulders for a\nhalf-day's fishing; or as, armed with guns, they whistled up the bored\nbut worthy setter for a shooting trip. But, for the most, Lad was close\nat their sides, during these two wonderful weeks. And he was very happy.\n\nOnce, during a solitary ramble, before the humans had awakened in the\nmorning, Lad caught an odd scent; and followed it for a quarter mile\ndown the mountainside. It waxed stronger and ranker. At last, a turn\naround a high boulder brought him face to face with its source. And he\nfound himself confronting a huge black bear.\n\nThe bear was busy looting a bee-tree. It was the season when he and his\nlike are stocking up, with all the fatmaking food they can gorge, in\npreparation for the winter's \"holing-in.\" Thus, he viewed with sluggish\nnon-interest the advent of the dog. He had scented Lad for as long a\ntime as Lad had scented him. But he had eaten on, unperturbed. For he\nknew himself to be the match of any four dogs; especially if the dogs\nwere unaccompanied by men. And, a long autumn of food had dulled his\ntemper.\n\nSo, he merely checked his honey-gorging long enough to roll a rotted\nlog to one side and to scoop up from under it a pawful of fat white\ngrubs which had decided to winter beneath the decayed trunk. Then,\nabsent-mindedly brushing aside a squadron of indignant bees, he\ncontinued his sweet feast.\n\nAs Lad rounded the boulder and came to a growling halt, the bear raised\nhis honey-smeared head, showed a yellowing fang from under one upcurled\ncorner of his sticky lips; and glowered evilly at the collie from out\nof his reddening little eyes. Then he made as though to go on eating.\n\nBut Lad would not have it so. Into his rejuvenated heart stole a tinge\nof the mischief which makes a collie puppy dash harrowingly at a\ntethered cow. Barking with sheer delight in the excitement of meeting\nthis savage-looking monster, the dog rushed merrily at the bear. His\nteeth were not bared. His hackles were not bristling. This was no\nfight; but a jolly game. Lad's dark eyes danced with fun.\n\nMidway of his charge, he checked himself. Not through fear, but from\nutter astonishment. For his new acquaintance had done a right\nnon-quadrupedal thing. Bruin had reared himself upon his hind legs; and\nwas standing there, like a man, confronting the dog. He towered, thus,\never so high above Lad's head.\n\nHis short arms, with their saber-shaped claws, were outstretched toward\nLad, as if in humble supplication. But there was nothing supplicating\nor even civil in the tiny red eyes that squinted ferociously down at\nthe collie. Small wonder that Laddie halted his own galloping advance;\nand stood doubtful!\n\nThe Master, a minute earlier, had turned out of the blankets for his\npainfully icy morning plunge in the lakelet. The fanfare of barking, a\nquarter-mile below, changed his intent. A true dogman knows his dog's\nbark,--and its every shade of meaning,--as well as though it were human\nspeech. From the manner wherewith Lad had given tongue, the Master knew\nhe had cornered or treed something quite out of the common. Catching up\nhis rifle, he made for the direction of the bark; running at top speed.\n\nThe bear put an end to the moment of hesitancy. Lunging forward, he\nraked at the crouching collie, with one of his murderous claws; in a\ngesture designed to gather the impudent dog into his death-embrace.\n\nNow, even from humans, except only the Mistress and the Master, Lad\ndetested patting or handling of any kind. Whether he thought this\nmaneuver of the bear's an uncouth form of caress or knew it for a\nmenace,--he moved back from it. Yet he did so with a leisurely motion,\ndevoid of fear and expressive of a certain lofty contempt. Perhaps that\nis why he moved without his native caution.\n\nAt all events, the tip of one of the sweeping claws grazed his ear,\nopening the big vein, and hurting like the very mischief.\n\nOn the instant, Lad changed from a mischievous investigator to a deeply\noffended and angry dog. No longer in doubt as to Bruin's intent, he\nslithered out of reach of the grasping arms, with all the amazing speed\nof a wolf-descended collie of the best sort. And, in practically the\nsame fraction of a second, he had flashed back to  the attack.\n\nDiving in under the other's surprisingly agile arms, he slashed the\nbear's stomach with one of his razorlike eyeteeth; then spun to one\nside and was out of reach. Down came the bear, on all fours; raging\nfrom the slash. Lurching forward, he flung his huge bulk at the dog.\nLad flashed out of reach, but with less leeway than he would have\nexpected. For Bruin, for all his awkwardness, could move with\nbewildering speed.\n\nAnd, as the bear turned, Lad was at him again, nipping the hairy flank,\ntill his teeth met in its fat; and then diving as before under the\nlunging body of the foe.\n\nIt was at this point the Master hove in sight. He was just in time to\nsee the flank-bite and to see Lad dance out of reach of the furious\ncounter. It was an interesting spectacle, there in the gray dawn and in\nthe primeval forest's depths;--this battle between a gallant dog and a\nragingly angry bear. If the dog had been other than his own loved chum,\nthe Master might have stood there and watched its outcome. But he was\nenough of a woodsman to know there could, in all probability, be but\none end to such a fight.\n\nLad weighed eighty pounds,--an unusually heavy weight for a collie that\ncarries no loose fat,--and he was the most compactly powerful dog of\nhis size the Master had ever seen. Also, when he chose to exert it, Lad\nhad the swiftness of a wildcat and the battling prowess of a tiger.\n\nYet all this would scarce carry him to victory, or even to a draw,\nagainst a black bear several times heavier than himself and with the\nability to rend with his claws as well as with his teeth. Once let\nLad's foot slip, in charge or in elusive retreat,--once let him\nmisjudge time or distance--and he must be crushed to a pulp or ripped\nto ribbons.\n\nWherefore, the Master brought his rifle to his shoulder. His finger\ncurled about the trigger. But it was no easy thing, by that dim light,\nto aim with any accuracy. Nor was there the slightest assurance that\nLad,--dancing in and out and everywhere and nowhere at once,--might not\ncome in line with the bullet. Thus,--from a tolerable knowledge of\nbears and of their comparative mildness in the plump season of the\nyear,--he shouted at the top of his lungs; and, at the same time, fired\ninto the air.\n\nThe bluff sufficed. Even as Lad jumped back from close quarters and\nwhirled about, at sound of the voice and the shot,--the bear dropped to\nall fours, with ridiculous haste; and shambled off at very creditable\nspeed into the tangle of undergrowth.\n\nNot so far gone in the battle-lust had Bruin been that he cared to risk\nconflict with an armed man. Twice, before, in his somewhat long life,\nhad he heard at close quarters the snap of a rifle, in the forest\nstillness, and the whine of a bullet. Once, such a bullet had found its\nmark by scoring a gouge on his scalp; a gouge which gnats and mayflies\nand \"no-see-'ems\" and less cleanly pests had made a torment for him,\nfor weeks thereafter.\n\nBruin had a good memory. Just now, he had nothing to defend. He was not\nat bay. Nor had the fight-fury possessed him to the exclusion of\nsanity. Thus, he fled. And, eagerly, Lad gave chase.\n\nBut, at the very edge of the bush-rampart, the Master's call brought\nthe collie back, to heel, exceeding glum and reluctant. Reproachfully,\nLad gazed up at the man who had spoiled his morning of enthralling\nsport. Halfheartedly, Lad listened to the Master's rebuke, as he\nfollowed back to camp. His day had begun so delightfully! And, as\nusual, a human had interrupted the fun, at the most exciting time; and\nfor no apparent reason. Humans were like that.\n\nBarring one other incident, Lad's two weeks at camp were\nuneventful,--until the very last day. That \"one incident\" can be passed\nover, with modest brevity. It concerned a black-and-white cat which Lad\nsaw, one evening, sneaking past the campfire's farthest shadows. He\ngave chase. The chase ended in less than ten seconds. And, Lad had to\nbe bathed and scoured and rubbed and anointed, for the best part of\ntwenty-four hours, before he was allowed to come again within fifty\nfeet of the dining tent.\n\nOn a raw morning, the car and the truck made their appearance at the\nfoot of the rocky mountaintop hillock. The tents had been struck, at\ndaylight; and every cooking utensil and dish had been scoured and put\ninto the crate as soon as it was used. Camp was policed and cleaned.\nThe fire was beaten to death; a half-score pails of water were dowsed\nover its remains; and damp earth was flung upon it.\n\nIn short, the camping spot was not only left as it had been found and\nas one would want it to be found again, but every trace of fire was\ndestroyed.\n\nAnd all this, be it known, is more than a mere rule for campers. It\nshould be their sacred creed. If one is not thoroughgoing sportsman\nenough to make his camp-site scrupulously clean, at least there is one\ndetail he should never allow himself to neglect;--a detail whose\nomission should be punished by a term in prison: Namely, the utter\nextinction of the campfire.\n\nEvery year, millions of dollars' worth of splendid trees and of homes\nare wiped out, by forest fires. No forest fire, since the birth of\ntime, ever started of its own accord. Each and every one has been due\nto human carelessness.\n\nA campfire ill-extinguished;--a smolder of tobacco not stamped\nout;--the flaming cinders of a railroad train,--a match dropped among\ndry leaves before spark and blaze have both been destroyed,--these be\nthe first and only causes of the average forest fire. All are\navoidable. None is avoided. And the loss to property and to life and to\nnatural resources is unbelievably great.\n\nAny fool can start a forest fire. Indeed, a fool generally does. But a\nhundred men cannot check it. Forest wardens post warnings. Forest\npatrols, afoot or in airships, keep sharp watch. But the selfish\ncarelessness of man undoes their best precautions.\n\nSometimes in spring or in lush summer, but far oftenest in the dry\nautumn, the Red Terror stalks over mountain and valley; leaving black\nruin in its wake. Scarce an autumn passes that the dirty smoke reek\ndoes not creep over miles of sweet woodland, blotting out the sunshine\nfor a time and blotting out rich vegetation for much longer.\n\nThis particular autumn was no exception. On the day before camp was\nbroken, the Mistress had spied, from the eyrie heights of the knoll, a\ngrim line of haze far to southward; and a lesser smoke-smear to the\nwest. And the night sky, on two horizons, had been faintly lurid.\n\nThe campers had noted these phenomena, with sorrow. For, each\nwraithlike smoke-swirl meant the death of tree and shrub. Lad noted the\nsmudges as distinctly as did they. Indeed, to his canine nostrils, the\nchill autumn air brought the faint reek of wood-smoke; an odor much too\nelusive, at that distance, for humans to smell. And, once or twice, he\nwould glance in worried concern at these humans; as if wondering why\nthey took so coolly a manifestation that a thousand-year-old hereditary\ninstinct made the dog shrink from.\n\nBut the humans showed no outward sign of terror or of rage. And, as\never, taking his tone from his gods, Lad decided there was nothing to\nfear. So, he tried to give no further heed to the reek.\n\nThe driver of the truck and his assistant were full of tales of the\nfire's ravages in other sections. And their recital was heard with\nactive interest by the folk who for fourteen days had been out of touch\nwith the world.\n\n\"It's well we're lighting out for civilization,\" said the Master, as he\nsuperintended the loading of the truck. \"The woods are as dry as\ntinder. And if the wind should change and grow a bit fresher, the blaze\nover near Wildcat Mountain might come in this direction. If ever it\ndoes, it'll travel faster than any gang of fire-fighters can block it.\nThis region is dead ripe for such a thing. Not a drop of rain in a\nmonth . . . . No, no, Laddie!\" he broke off in his maunderings, as the\ncollie sought to leap aboard the truck in the wake of a roll of\nbedding. \"No, no. You're going with us, in the car.\"\n\nNow, long usage and an uncanny intelligence had given Lad a more than\ntolerable understanding of the English language's simpler phrases. The\nterm, \"You're going with us in the car,\" was as comprehensible to him\nas to any child. He had heard it spoken, with few variations, a\nthousand times, in the past nine years. At once, on hearing the\nMaster's command, he jumped down from the truck; trotted off to the\ncar, a hundred yards distant; and sprang into his wonted place in the\nluggage-cluttered tonneau.\n\nHe chanced to jump aboard, from one side; just as the guide's\nhobbledehoy son was hoisting a heavy and cumbersome duffle bag into the\ntonneau, from the other. Lad's eighty pounds of nervous energy smote\nthe bag, amidships; as the boy was balancing it high in air,\npreparatory to setting it down between two other sacks. As a result,\nboy and bag rolled backward in a tangled embrace, across several yards\nof stony ground.\n\nLad had not meant to cause any such catastrophe. Yet he stood looking\ndown in keen enjoyment at the lively spectacle. But as the boy came to\na halt, against a sharp-pointed rock, and sat up, sniveling with pain,\nthe great dog's aspect changed. Seeming to realize he was somehow to\nblame, he jumped lightly down from the car and went over to offer to\nthe sufferer such comfort as patting forepaw and friendly licking\ntongue could afford.\n\n\"Here!\" called the guide, who had seen but a crosssection of the\ncollision. \"Here, you! Stop a-playin' with the dorg, and hustle them\nbags onto--\"\n\n\"I wa'n't playin' with him,\" half-blubbered the boy, glowering dourly\nat the sympathetic Lad; and scrambling up from his bruise-punctured\nroll on the ground. \"He came a-buntin' me; and I--\"\n\n\"That'll do, Sonny!\" rasped Barret, who was strong on discipline and\nwho fancied he had witnessed the climax of a merry game between boy and\ndog, \"I seen what I seen. And I don't aim to take no back-talk from a\nwall-eyed, long-legged, chuckle-headed brat; that's hired to help his\npoor old dad and who spends his time cuttin' monkeyshines with a dorg.\nYou take that collie over to the truck, and ask his boss to look after\nhim and to see he don't pester us while we're aworkin'. On the way\nback, stop at the lean-to and catch me that bag of cookin' things I\nleft there. The's just room for 'em, under the seat. Chase!\"\n\nWoefully, the boy limped off; his hand clinched in the fur of Lad's\nruff. The dog, ordinarily, would have resented such familiarity. But,\nstill seeking to comfort the victim's manifest unhappiness, he suffered\nhimself to be led along. Which was Lad's way. The sight of sorrow or of\npain always made him ridiculously gentle and sympathetic.\n\nThe boy's bruises hurt cruelly. The distance to the truck was a full\nhundred yards. The distance to the lean-to (a permanent shed, back of\nthe camp-site) was about the same, and in almost the opposite\ndirection. The prospect of the double journey was not alluring. The\nyouth hit on a scheme to shorten it. First glancing back to see that\nhis father was not looking, he climbed the bare stony hillock, toward\nthe lean-to; Lad pacing courteously along beside him.\n\nArrived at the shed, he took from a nail a rope-length; tied  it around\nLad's neck; fastened the dog to one of the uprights; shouldered the\ncooking-utensil bag; and started back toward the car.\n\nHe had saved himself, thus, a longer walk; and had obeyed his father's\norders to take Lad away. He was certain the Master, or one of the\nothers, missing the dog, would see him standing forlornly there, just\noutside the lean-to's corner; or that another errand would bring some\nof the party to the shed to release him. At best, the boy was sore of\nheart and of body, at his own rough treatment. And he had scant\ninterest anything else.\n\nTwenty minutes later, the truck chugged bumpily off, upon its trip down\nthe hazardous mountain track. The guide's boy rode in triumph on the\nseat beside the truckman;--a position of honor and of excitement.\n\n\"Where's Lad?\" asked the Mistress, a minute afterward, as she and the\nMaster and the guide made ready to get into the car and follow.\n\n\"Aboard the truck,\" responded Barret, in entire good faith. \"Him and my\nboy got a-skylarkin' here. So I sent Bud over to the truck with him.\"\n\n\"That's queer!\" mused the Mistress. \"Why, Laddie never condescends to\nplay,--or 'skylark,' as you call it,--with anyone except my husband or\nmyself! He--\"\n\n\"Never mind!\" put in the Master. \"We'll catch up with the truck before\nit's gone a mile. And we can take Laddie aboard here, then. But I\nwonder he consented to go ahead, without us. That isn't like Lad.\nHoliday-spirits, I suppose. This trip has made a puppy of him. A\nstately old gentleman like Laddie would never think of rounding up\nbears and skunks, if he was at home.\"  As he talked, the car got under\nway; moving at rackety and racking \"first speed\" over hummock and bump;\nas it joggled into the faint wheeltrack. By reason of this noise and of\nthe Master's stupid homily, none of the trio heard an amazed little\nbark, from the knoll-top, a hundred yards behind them.\n\nNor did the car catch up with the truck. At the end of the first half\nmile, the horrible roadbed began to take toll of the elderly tires.\nThere were two punctures, in rapid succession. Then came a blowout.\nAnd, at the bottom of the mountain a third puncture varied the monotony\nof the ride. Thus, the truck reached the Place well ahead of the faster\nvehicle.\n\nThe Mistress's first question was for Lad. Terror seized upon the\nguide's boy, as he remembered where he had left the dog. He glanced\nobliquely at the truckman, who had unloaded and who was cranking.\n\n\"Now--\" said the scared youth, glibly, avoiding his father's\nunsuspecting eye. \"Now--now, Lad he was settin' 'twixt Simmons and me.\nAnd he hops down and runs off around the house, towards--towards the\nlake--soon as we stopped here. Most likely he was thirsty-like, or\nsomething.\"\n\nThe Mistress was busy with details of the car's unpacking. So she\naccepted the explanation. It seemed probable that the long and dusty\nride should have made Lad thirsty; and that after his drink at the\nlake, he had made the rounds of the Place; as ever was his wont after\nhis few brief absences from home.\n\nNot until dinnertime did she give another thought to her loved pet's\nabsence. The guide and his boy had long since departed, on the truck,\nfor their ten-mile distant home. Nor, even yet, did it occur to the\nMistress to question the truth of the youngster's story. She merely\nwondered why, for the first time in his life, Lad should absent himself\nat dinnertime from his time-honored place on the dining-room floor, at\nthe Master's left. And, amusedly, she recalled what her husband had\nsaid of the stately dog's new propensity for mischief. Perhaps Lad was\nexploring the friendly home-woods in search of a bear!\n\nBut when ten o'clock came and Lad did not seek the shelter of his\n\"cave\" under the music-room piano, for the night, there was real worry.\nThe Mistress went out on the veranda and sounded long and shrilly upon\nthe silver whistle which hung from her belt.\n\nFrom puppyhood, Laddie had always come, at a sweeping gallop, on sound\nof this whistle. Its notes could travel, through still air, for a half\nmile or more. Their faintest echoes always brought the dog in eager\nresponse. But tonight, a dozen wait-punctuated blasts brought no other\nresponse than to set the distant village dogs to barking.\n\nThe Mistress went back into the house, genuinely worried. Acting on a\nsudden idea, she called up the Place's superintendent, at the gatelodge.\n\n\"You were down here when the truck came to the house this afternoon,\nweren't you?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said the man. \"I was waiting for it. Mike and I helped\nSimmons to unload.\"\n\n\"Did you see which way Lad went, when he jumped out of the truck?\"\npursued the Mistress. \"Or have any of you seen him since then?\"\n\n\"Why, no, ma'am,\" came the puzzled answer. \"I haven't seen him at all.\nI supposed he was in the car with you, and that maybe he'd been in the\nhouse ever since. He wasn't on the truck: That's one sure thing. I saw\nit stop; and I stayed till they finished emptying it. Lad wasn't there.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause. Then, the Mistress spoke again. Her voice\nslightly muffled, she said:\n\n\"Please find out if there is plenty of gas in my car;--enough to take\nit--say, forty miles. Thank you.\"\n\n\"What on earth--?\" began the Master, as his wife left the telephone and\npicked up an ulster.\n\n\"Laddie didn't come home on the truck,\" she made tremulous reply. \"And\nhe wasn't with us. He hasn't come home all.\"\n\n\"He'll find his way, easily enough,\" returned the Master, albeit with\nno great assurance. \"Lad's found his way farther than that. He--\"\n\n\"If he was going to find his way,\" interrupted the Mistress, \"he'd have\nfound it before now. I know Laddie. So do you. He is up there. And he\ncan't get back. He--\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" laughed the Master. \"Why, of course, he--\"\n\n\"He is up there,\" insisted the Mistress, \"and he can't get back. I know\nhim well enough to be, sure he'd have overtaken us, when we stopped all\nthose times to fix the tires;--if he had been left behind. And I know\nsomething else: When we started on, after that first puncture, we were\nabout half a mile below the knoll. And as we went around the bend,\nthere was a gap in the trees. I was looking back. For a second, I could\nsee the lean-to, outlined ever so clearly against the sky. And\nalongside of it was standing some animal. It was far away; and we\npassed out of sight so suddenly, that I couldn't see what it was;\nexcept that it was large and dark. And it seemed to be struggling to\nmove from where it stood. I was going to speak to you about it,--I\nsupposed it was that black bear of Laddie's,--when we had the next\npuncture. And that made me forget all about it;--till now. Of course,\nit never occurred to me it could be Lad. Because Barret had said he was\nin the truck. But--but oh, it WAS Laddie! He--he was fastened, or\ncaught, in  some way. I know he was. Why, I could see him struggle to--\"\n\n\"Come on!\" broke in the Master, hustling into his mackinaw. \"Unless\nyou'll stay here, while I--\"\n\n\"No,\" she protested. \"I'm going. And I'm going because I'm thinking of\nthe same thing that's troubling you. I'm thinking of those forest fires\nand of what you said about the wind changing and--\"\n\n\"Come on!\" repeated the Master; starting for the garage.\n\nWhich shows how maudlinly foolish two otherwise sane people can be;\nwhen they are lucky enough to own such a dog as Sunnybank Lad.\nNaturally, the right course, at so cold and late an hour of the autumn\nnight, and after a long day of packing and motoring and unpacking, was\nto go to bed; and to trust to luck that the wise old collie would find\nhis way back again. Instead, the two set off on a twenty-mile wildgoose\nchase, with worried faces and fast-beating hearts. It did not occur to\neither of them to stay at home; or to send someone else on the long,\nfrosty drive in search of the missing dog.\n\nLad had watched the preparations for departure with increasing worry.\nAlso, the abnormally sensitive old fellow was wretchedly unhappy.\nExcept at dog-shows, he had never before been tied up. And at such\nshows, the Mistress and the Master were always on hand to pet and\nreassure him. Yet, here, he had suffered himself to be tied by a smelly\nrope to the rotting post of a lean-to, by a comparative stranger. And,\nin the open ground below the hillock, his deities moved back and forth\nwithout so much as an upward glance at him.\n\nThen, to his dismay, truck and car had made off down the mountainside;\nand he had been left alone in his imprisonment. Except for a single\nunheard bark of protest, Lad made no effort to call back the departing\nhumans. Never before had they forsaken him. And he had full trust that\nthey would come back in a few minutes and set him free.\n\nWhen the car halted, a half-mile below, Lad felt certain his faith was\nabout to be justified. Then, as it moved on again, he sprang to the end\nof his short rope, and tried to break free and follow.\n\nThen came the dying away of the chugging motor's echoes; and silence\nrolled up and engulfed the wilderness hilltop.\n\nLad was alone. They had gone off and left him. They had with never a\nword of goodby or a friendly command to watch camp until their return.\nThis was not the dog's first sojourn in camp. And his memory was\nflawless. Always, he recalled, the arrival and the loading of the truck\nand the striking of tents had meant that the stay was over and that at\nthe party was going home.\n\nHome! The charm and novelty of the wilderness all at once faded. Lad\nwas desperately lonely and desperately unhappy. And his feelings were\ncruelly hurt; at the strange treatment accorded him.\n\nYet, it did not occur to him to seek freedom and to follow his gods to\nthe home he loved. He had been tied here, presumably by their order;\ncertainly with their knowledge. And it behooved him to wait until they\nshould come to release him. He knew they would come back, soon or late.\nThey were his gods, his chums, his playmates. They would no more desert\nhim than he would have deserted them. It was all right, somehow. Only,\nthe waiting was tedious!\n\nWith a tired little sigh, the collie curled up in a miserable heap on\nthe stony ground, the shortness of his tether making even this effort\nat repose anything but comfortable. And he waited.\n\nA dog, that is happy and well, settles himself for a prolonged wait, by\nstretching out on his side;--oftenest the left side; and by dropping\noff into slumber. Seldom, unless he be cold or ill, does a big dog curl\nup into a ball, to rest. Nor is he thoroughly comfortable in such a\nposture.\n\nLad was not comfortable. He was not resting. He was wretched. Nor did\nhe try to snooze. Curled in a compact heap, his sorrowful eyes abrim\nwith sorrow, he lay scanning the bumpy mountainside and straining his\nears, for sign of the car's return. His breathing was not as splendidly\neasy as usual. For, increasingly, that earlier twinge of acrid\nsmoke-reek was tickling his throat. The haze, that had hovered over the\nfarther hilltops and valleys, was thickening; and it was creeping\nnearer. The breath of morning breeze was stiffening into a steady wind;\na wind that blew strong from the west and carried on it the smell of\nforest fire.\n\nLad did not enjoy the ever-stronger smoke scent. But he gave only\nhalf-heed to it. His main attention was centered on that winding\nwagon-track whence the car and the truck had vanished into the\nlowlands. And, through the solemnly spent hours he lay forlornly\nwatching it.\n\nBut, after sunset, the smoke became too pervasive to be ignored longer.\nIt was not only stinging his throat and lungs, but it was making his\neyes smart. And it had cut off the view of all save the nearer\nmountain-peaks.\n\nLad got to his feet; whining softly, under his breath. Ancestral\ninstinct was fairly shouting to his brain that here was terrible peril.\nHe strained at his thick rope; and looked imploringly down the\nwagon-road.\n\nThe wind had swelled into something like a gale. And, now, to Lad's\nkeen ears came the far-off snap and crack of a million dry twigs as the\nflame kissed them in its fast-crawling advance. This sharper sound rose\nand fell, as a theme to the endless and slowly-augmenting roar which\nhad been perceptible for hours.\n\nAgain, Laddie strained at his heavy rope. Again, his smoke-stung eyes\nexplored the winding trail down the mountain. No longer was the trail\nso distinguishable as before. Not only by reason of darkness, but\nbecause from that direction came the bulk of the eddying gusts of\nwind-driven smoke.\n\nThe fire's mounting course was paralleling the trail; checked from\ncrossing it only by a streambed and an outcrop of granite which\nzigzagged upward from the valley. The darkness served also to tinge the\nlowering sky to south and to westward with a steadily brightening lurid\nglare. The Master had been right in his glum prophecy that a strong and\nsudden shift of wind would carry the conflagration through the\ntinder-dry undergrowth and dead trees of that side of the mountain, far\nfaster than any body of fire-fighters could hope to check it.\n\nThe flame-reflection began to light the open spaces below the knoll,\nwith increasing vividness. The chill of early evening was counteracted\nwaves of sullen heat, which the wind sent swirling before it.\n\nLad panted; from warmth as much as from nervousness. He had gone all\nday without water. And a collie, more perhaps than any other dog, needs\nplenty of fresh, cool water to drink; at any and all times. The hot\nwind and the smoke were parching his throat. His thirst was intolerable.\n\nBehind him, not very many yards away, was the ice-cold mountain lakelet\nin which so often he had bathed and drunk. The thought of it made him\nhate the stout rope.\n\nBut he made no serious effort to free himself. He had been tied\nthere,--supposedly by the Master's command. And, as a well-trained dog,\nit was his place to stay where he was, until the Master should free\nhim. So, apart from an instinctive tug or two at his moorings, he\nsubmitted to his fate.\n\nBut, in mid-evening, something occurred, to change his viewpoint, in\nthis matter of nonresistance.\n\nThe line of fire, climbing the mountain toward him, had encountered a\nmarshy stretch; where, in normal weather, water stood inches deep.\nDespite the drought, there was still enough moisture to stay the\nadvance of the red line until the dampness could be turned to dust and\ntindery vegetation. And, in the meanwhile, after the custom of its\nkind, the fire had sought to spread to either side. Stopped at the\ngranite-outcrop to the right, it had rolled faster through the herbage\nto the left.\n\nThus, by the time the morass was dry enough for the flame to pass it,\nthere was a great sickle of crawling red fire to the left; which\nencircled a whole flank of the mountain and which was moving straight\nupward.\n\nLad knew nothing of this; nor why the advance of the fire's direct line\nhad been so long checked. Nor did he know, presumably, that this sickle\nof flame was girdling the mountain-flank; like a murderous net; hemming\nin all live things within the flaming arc and forcing them on in panic,\nahead of its advance. Perhaps he did not even note the mad scurryings\nin undergrowth and bramble, in front of the oncoming blaze. But one\nthing, very speedily, became apparent to him:--\n\nFrom out a screen of hazel and witch-elm (almost directly in front of\nthe place where the truck, that morning, had been loaded) crashed a\nright hideous object. By sight and by scent Lad knew the creature for\nhis olden foe, the giant black bear.\n\nGrowling, squealing, a dozen stinging fiery sparks sizzling through his\nbushy coat, the bear tore his way from the hedge of thicket and out\ninto the open. The fire had roused him from his snug lair and had\ndriven him ahead of it with a myriad hornets of flame, in a crazed\nsearch for safety.\n\nAt sight of the formidable monster, Lad realized for the first time the\nfull extent of his own helplessness. Tethered to a rope which gave him\nscarce twenty-five inches of leeway, he was in no fit condition to fend\noff the giant's assault.\n\nHe wasted no time in futile struggles. All his race's uncanny powers of\nresource came rushing to his aid. Without an instant's pause, he\nwheeled about; and drove his keen teeth into the rope that bound him to\nthe post.\n\nLad did not chew aimlessly at the thick tether; nor throw away one\nounce of useless energy. Seizing the hempen strands, he ground his\nteeth deeply and with scientific skill, into their fraying recesses.\nThus does a dog, addicted to cutting his leash, attack the bonds which\nhold him.\n\nIt was Lad's first experience of the kind. But instinct served him\nwell. The fact that the rope had been left out of doors, in all\nweathers, for several years, served him far better. Not only did it\nsever the more easily; but it soon lost the cohesion needed for\nresisting any strong pull.\n\nThe bear, lurching half-blindly, had reeled out into the open, below\nthe knoll. There, panting and grunting, he turned to blink at the\noncoming fire and to get his direction. For perhaps a half-minute he\nstood thus; or made little futile rushes from side to side. And this\nbreathing space was taken up by Lad in the gnawing of the rope.\n\nThen, while the collie was still toiling over the hempen mouthfuls, the\nbear seemed to recover his own wonted cleverness; and to realize his\nwhereabouts. Straight up the hillock he charged, toward the lean-to;\nhis splay feet dislodging innumerable surface stones from the rocky\nsteep; and sending them behind him in a series of tiny avalanches.\n\nLad, one eye ever on his foe, saw the onrush. Fiercely he redoubled his\nefforts to bite through the rope, before the bear should be upon him.\nBut the task was not one to be achieved in a handful of seconds.\n\nMoving with a swiftness amazing for an animal of his clumsy bulk, the\nbear swarmed up the hillock. He gained the summit; not three yards from\nwhere Laddie struggled. And the collie knew the rope was not more than\nhalf gnawed through. There was no further time for biting at it. The\nenemy was upon him.\n\nFear did not enter the big dog's soul. Yet he grieved that the\ndeath-battle should find him so pitifully ill-prepared. And, abandoning\nthe work of self-release, he flung himself ragingly at the advancing\nbear.\n\nThen, two things happened. Two things, on neither of which the dog\ncould have counted. The bear was within a hand's breadth of him; and\nwas still charging, headlong. But he looked neither to right nor to\nleft. Seemingly ignorant of Lad's presence, the huge brute tore past\nhim, almost grazing the collie in his insane rush; and sped straight on\ntoward the lake beyond.\n\nThat was one of the two unforeseen happenings. The other was the\nsnapping of the rotted rope, under the wrench of Lad's furious leap.\n\nFree, and with the severed rope's loop still dangling uselessly from\naround his shaggy throat, the dog stood staring in blank amaze after\nhis former adversary. He saw the bear reach the margin of the icy lake\nand plunge nose deep into its sheltering waters. Here, as Bruin's\ninstinct or experience had foretold, no forest fire could harm him. He\nneed but wallow there until the Red Terror should have swept past and\nuntil the scorched ground should be once more cool enough to walk on.\n\nLad turned again toward the slope. He was free, now, to follow the\nwagon track to the main road and so homeward, guided perhaps by memory,\nperhaps by scent; most probably guided by the mystic sixth sense which\nhas more than once enabled collies to find their way, over hundreds of\nmiles of strange territory, back to their homes.\n\nBut, in the past few minutes, the fire's serpent-like course had taken\na new twist. It had flung volleys of sparks across the upper reach of\ngranite rock-wall, and had ignited dry wood and brier on the right hand\nside of the track. This, far up the mountain, almost at the very foot\nof the rock-hillock.\n\nThe way to home was barred by a three-foot-high crackling fence of\nred-gold flame; a flame which nosed hungrily against the barren rocks\nof the knoll-foot; as if seeking in ravenous famine the fuel their bare\nsurfaces denied it.\n\nAnd now, the side of the hillock showed other signs of forest life. Up\nthe steep slope thundered a six-antlered buck, snorting shrilly in\npanic and flying toward the cool refuge of the little lake.\n\nFar more slowly, but with every tired muscle astrain, a fat porcupine\nwas mounting the hill; its claws digging frantically for foothold among\nthe slippery stones. It seemed to flow, rather than to run. And as it\nhurried on, it chuckled and scolded, like some idiot child.\n\nA bevy of squirrels scampered past it. A long snake, roused from its\nstony winter lair, writhed eerily up the slope, heedless of its fellow\ntravelers' existence. A raccoon was breasting the steep, from another\nangle. And behind it came clawing a round-paunched opossum; grinning\nfrom the pain of sparks that were stinging it to a hated activity.\n\nThe wilderness was giving up its secrets, with a vengeance. And the Red\nTerror, as ever, was enforcing a truce among the forest-folk; a truce\nbred of stark fear. One and all--of those that had been aroused in time\nto get clear of the oncoming fiery sickle--the fugitives were making\nfor the cool safety of the lake.\n\nLad scarce saw or noted any of his companions. The road to home was\nbarred. And, again, ancestral instinct and his own alert wit came to\nhis aid. Turning about, and with no hint of fear in his gait or in the\nsteady dark eyes, he trotted toward the lake.\n\nAlready the bear had reached its soothing refuge; and was standing hip\ndeep in the black waters; now and then ducking his head and tossing\nshowers of cold spray over his scorched shoulder-fur.\n\nLad trotted to the brink. There, stooping--not fifty feet away from\nBruin--he lapped thirstily until he had at last drunk his fill. Then,\nlooking back once in the direction of the fire-line, he lay down, very\ndaintily indeed, in shallow water; and prepared to enjoy his liberty.\nScourged by none of the hideous fear which had goaded his fellow\nfugitives, he watched with grave interest the arrival of one after\nanother of the refugees; as they came scurrying wildly down to the\nwater.\n\nLad was comfortable. Here, the smoke-reek stung less acutely. Here,\ntoo, were grateful darkness, after the torrid glare of the fire, and\ncold water and security. Here were also many diverting creatures to\nwatch. It would have been pleasant to go home at once. But, since that\nwas out of the question, there were far worse things than to lie\ninterestedly at ease until the Master should come for him.\n\nThe fire raged and flickered along the base of the bare rocky knoll;\nand, finding no path of advance, turned back on itself, fire-fashion;\nseeking new outlet. The thin line of bushes and other undergrowth at\nthe hillock's foot were quickly consumed; leaving only a broad bed of\nember and spark. And the conflagration swept on to the left, over the\nonly course open to it. To the right, the multiple ridges of rock and\nthe dearth of vegetation were sufficient \"No Thoroughfare\" enforcement.\n\nThis same odd rock-formation had kept the wagon track clear, up to the\ntwist where it bore to leftward at the base of the knoll. And the\nMistress and the Master were able to guide their rattlingly protesting\ncar in safety up the trail from the main road far below. The set of the\nwind prevented them from being blinded or confused by smoke. Apart from\na smarting of the eyes and a recurrent series of heat waves, they made\nthe climb with no great discomfort;--until the final turn brought them\nto an abrupt halt at the spot where the wide swath of red coals and\nflaming ashes marked the burning of the hillock foot bushes.\n\nThe Master jumped to earth and stood confronting the lurid stretch of\nash and ember with, here and there, a bush stump still crackling\nmerrily. It was not a safe barrier to cross; this twenty-foot-wide\nfiery stretch. Nor, for many rods in either direction, was there any\nway around it.\n\n\"There's one comfort,\" the Master was saying, as he began to explore\nfor an opening in the red scarf of coals, \"the fire hasn't gotten up to\nthe camp-site. He--\"\n\n\"But the smoke has,\" said the Mistress, who had been peering vainly\nthrough the hazecurtain toward the summit. \"And so has the heat. If\nonly--\"\n\nShe broke off, with a catch in her sweet voice. And, scarce realizing\nwhat she did, she put the silver whistle to her lips and blew a\npiercingly loud blast.\n\n\"What's that for?\" asked the Master, crankily, worry over his beloved\ndog making his nerves raw. \"If Lad's alive, he's fastened there. You\nsay you saw him struggling to get loose, this morning. He can't come,\nwhen he hears that whistle. There's no sense in--How in blue blazes he\never got fastened there,--if he really was,--is more than I can--\"\n\n\"Hush!\" begged the Mistress, breaking in on his grumbled monologue.\n\"Listen!\"\n\nOut of the darkness, beyond the knoll-top, came the sound of a\nbark,--the clear trumpeting welcome-bark which Lad reserved for the\nMistress and the Master, alone; on their return from any absence.\n\nThrough the night it echoed, gaily, defiantly; again and again; ringing\nout above the obscene hiss and crackle and roar of the forest-fire. And\nat every repetition, it was nearer and nearer the dumfounded listeners\nat the knoll foot.\n\n\"It's--it's Laddie!\" cried the Mistress, in wondering rapture. \"Oh,\nit's LADDIE!\"\n\nThe Master, hearing the glad racket, did a thoroughly asinine thing.\nDrawing in his breath and holding his coat in front of him, he prepared\nto make a dash through the wide smear of embers, to the hilltop; where,\npresumably, Lad was still tied. But, before he could take the first\nstep, the Mistress stayed him.\n\n\"Look!\" she cried, pointing to the hither side of the knoll; lividly\nbright in the ember-glow.\n\nDown the steep was galloping at breakneck speed a great, tawny shape.\nBarking rapturously,--even as  he had barked when first the whistle's\nblast had roused him from his lazy repose in the lakeside\nshallows,--Lad  came whizzing toward the two humans who watched so\nincredulously his wild approach.\n\nThe Master, belatedly, saw that the collie could not avoid crashing\ninto the spread of embers; and he opened his mouth to order Lad back.\nBut there was not time.\n\nFor once, the wise dog took no heed of even the simplest caution. His\nlost and adored deities had called him and were awaiting him. That was\nall Lad knew or cared. They had come back for him. His horrible vigil\nand loneliness and his deadly peril were ended.\n\nToo insanely happy to note where he was treading, he sprang into the\nvery center of the belt of smoldering coals. His tiny white\nforefeet--drenched with icy water--did not remain among them long\nenough to feel pain. In two more bounds he had cleared the barrier and\nwas dancing in crazy excitement around the Mistress and the Master;\npatting at them with his scorched feet; licking their eagerly caressing\nhands; \"talking\" in a dozen different keys of rapture, his whimpers and\ngrowls and gurgles running the entire gamut of long-pent-up emotions.\n\nHis coat and his feet had, for hours, been immersed in the cold water\nof the lake. And, he had fled through the embers at express-train\nspeed. Scarce a blister marked the hazardous passage. But Lad would not\nhave cared for all the blisters and burns on earth. His dear gods had\ncome back to him,--even as he had known they would!\n\nOnce more,--and for the thousandth time--they had justified his divine\nFaith in them. Nothing else mattered.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. Old  Dog; New Tricks\n\nA mildewed maxim runs: \"You can't teach an old dog new tricks.\"\n\nSome proverbs live because they are too true to die. Others endure\nbecause they have a smug sound and because nobody has bothered to bury\nthem. The one about old dogs and new tricks belongs in both categories.\nIn a sense it is true. In another it is not.\n\nTo teach the average elderly dog to sit up and beg, or to roll over\ntwice, or to do other of the asinine things with which humans stultify\nthe natural good sense of their canine chums, is as hard as to teach a\nsixty-year-old grave-digger to become a musical composer.\n\nBut no dog with a full set of brains is ever past learning new things\nwhich are actually needful for him to learn. And, sad to say, many an\nold dog, on his own account, picks up odd new accomplishments--exploits\nwhich would never have occurred to him in his early prime. Nobody knows\nwhy. But it has happened, numberless times.\n\nAnd so it was with Sunnybank Lad.\n\nLaddie had passed his twelfth birthday; when, by some strange freak, he\nbrought home one day a lace parasol. He had found it in the highroad,\non his way back to the Place after a sedate ramble in the forest. Now,\nit was nothing new for the great collie to find missing articles\nbelonging to the Mistress or to the Master. Every now and then he would\nlay at their feet a tobacco pouch or a handkerchief or a bunch of keys\nthat had been dropped, carelessly, somewhere on the grounds; and which\nLad recognized, by scent, as belonging to one of the two humans he\nloved.\n\nThese bits of treasure trove, he delighted in finding and restoring.\nYes, and--though those who had never seen him do this were prone to\ndoubt it--he was certain to lay the recovered object at the feet of\nwhichever of the two had lost it. For instance, it never occurred to\nhim to drop a filmy square of lace-and-cambric at the muddied feet of\nthe Master; or a smelly old tobacco-pouch at the Mistress's little feet.\n\nThere was nothing miraculous about this knowledge. To a high-bred dog,\nevery human of his acquaintance has a distinctive scent; which cannot\nbe mistaken. Lad used no occult power inn returning to the rightful\nowner any article he chanced to find on lawn or on veranda.\n\nBut the lace parasol was different. That, presumably, had fallen from\nsome passing motor-car, bound for Tuxedo or for the Berkshires. It did\nnot belong at the Place.\n\nLad happened to see it, lying there in the highway. And he brought it,\nforthwith, to the house; carrying it daintily between his mighty jaws;\nand laying it on the living-room floor in front of the astonished\nMistress. Probably, he laid it before her, instead of before the\nMaster, because she was the first of the two whom he happened to\nencounter. It is doubtful if he realized that a parasol is a purely\nfeminine adjunct;--although the Mistress always declared he did.\n\nShe picked up the gift and looked it over with real admiration. It was\na flimsily beautiful and costly thing; whose ivory handle was deftly\ncarven and set with several uncut stones; and whose deep fringe of lace\nwas true Venetian Point.\n\n\"Why, Laddie!\" she exclaimed, in wondering delight. \"Where in the world\ndid you get this? Look!\" she went on, as her husband came in from his\nstudy. \"See what Laddie brought me! I saw him coming down the drive\nwith something in his mouth. But I had no idea what it was. Isn't it a\nbeauty? Where do you suppose he--?\"\n\n\"As long as motorists go around curves at forty miles an hour,\" decided\nthe Master, \"so long their piled-up valuables are likely to be jostled\nout of the tonneau. I found a satchel, last week, at the curve, up\nthere, you remember; and a hat, the week before. What are you going to\ndo about this thing?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the Mistress, with a sigh of renunciation, \"I suppose we'll\nhave to advertise it; and watch the 'Lost and Found' columns, too.\nBut--wouldn't it be glorious if nobody should see our advertisement\nor--or ever advertise for it? It's so lovely! I hate to think it may\nbelong to somebody who can't appreciate it as I do.\"\n\nNow, Laddie had lived on the Place for many more years than he could\nremember. And he had spent the bulk of that time in studying the faces\nand the voices and the moods of these two people whom he worshiped.\nMoreover, he had an intelligence that is not given to most dogs,--even\nto collies--and a queer psychic twist to his brain that had puzzled his\nowners as much as it had delighted them:\n\nWatching the Mistress, now, with his classic head on one side and his\ndeep-set dark eyes fixed on her eager face, he saw that his roadway\ngift had made her very happy. Also, that her caressing hand on his head\nshowed pride in what he had done. And this, as ever, thrilled the old\ndog, to the very soul.\n\nHe wagged his plumed tail, in gladness, and thrust his nose into her\npalm and began to \"talk\" in gleeful treble. To none but the Mistress\nand the Master would Lad deign to \"talk.\" And, none listening to him\ncould doubt he was trying to copy the human voice and human meanings.\n\n\"Dear old Laddie!\" praised the Mistress, running her fingers through\nhis lion-like ruff. \"GOOD Laddie! Thank you, ever so much! Nobody but a\nvery, VERY wonderful collie named Lad could have had the perfect taste\nto pick out such a parasol. And now we're going to have a whole handful\nof animal crackers, for reward.\"\n\nThe crooningly sweet voice, the petting, the gift of animal crackers of\nwhich he was childishly fond--all these delighted Lad beyond measure.\nAnd they confirmed him in the belief that he had done something most\nlaudable.\n\nWhat he had done was to pick up a stray object, away from home, and\nbring it to the Mistress. He knew that. And that was all he knew. But,\nhaving won high praise for the deed, he resolved then and there to\nrepeat it.\n\nWhich proves that old dogs can be taught new tricks. And which started\nall the trouble.\n\nThat afternoon, the Mistress and the Master went for a five-mile ramble\nthrough the woods and over the mountains, back of the Place. With them\nwent old Laddie, who paced gravely between them. With them, also, went\nBruce, the magnificent dark sable collie of kingly look and demeanor;\nwho was second only to Lad in human traits and second to no living\nanimal in beauty. Bruce was glorious to look upon. In physique and in\ncharacter he had not a flaw. There was a strange sweetness to his\ndisposition that I have found in no other dog.\n\nWith Lad and Bruce, on this walk, raced Lad's fiery little golden son,\nWolf.\n\nOf old, Lad had led such runs. Now, advancing age and increased weight\nhad begun to make him chary of throwing away his fading energies.\nWherefore, he walked between his two deities; and let the two younger\ndogs do the galloping and rabbit chasing.\n\nAnd he had his reward. For, as they neared the highroad on the way\nhome, Wolf and Bruce chanced to tree a squirrel. Thus, Lad was first to\nreach the road with the two humans. Suddenly, he darted ahead of them;\nand snatched up from the wayside the somewhat worn case of a thermos\nbottle which had been discarded there or had fallen from a car-seat.\nThis he bore to the Mistress; fairly vibrating with pride in his own\nexploit.\n\nNoting his joy in the deed, she made much of the shabby gift; praising\nand thanking Lad, inordinately; and forbearing to throw away the worn\ncase until the collie was out of sight.\n\nOf late, as Laddie began to show signs of age, she and the Master had\ntaken to making more and more of him; to atone for his growing\nfeebleness and to anticipate the dark day which every dog-owner must\nface;--the day  when his voice and his caress can no longer mean\nanything to the pet who once rejoiced so utterly in them.\n\nAll of which went to confirm Lad in the natural belief that anything\nfound on the road and brought to the Mistress would be looked on with\njoy and would earn him much gratitude. So,--as might a human in like\ncircumstances,--he ceased to content himself with picking up trifles\nthat chanced to be lying in his path, in the highway, and fell to\nsearching for such flotsam and jetsam.\n\nHe began the hunt, next morning. Pacing gravely along the center of the\nroad, he headed toward the mile-distant village. By sheer luck, such\nfew automobiles as chanced along, at that hour, were driven by folk who\nhad heart enough to slow down or to turn aside for the majestically\nstrolling old dog. To the end of his long life, Lad could never be made\nto understand that he was not entitled to walk at will in the exact\nmiddle of the road. Perhaps his lofty assurance in taking such a course\nmade motorists check speed to spare him.\n\nThis morning, he had fared but a half-mile when he saw a car drawn up\nat the edge of the road, beside a shaded bit of turf. Several people\nhad just descended from it; and were making preparations for an early\npicnic lunch. One of them had finished depositing a basket on the\nground, at the side of the car farthest from the strip of sward where\nthe others were spreading a sea-rug and setting an impromptu table.\n\nThe man put the basket down in the road. Then he dived back into the\nnether regions of the machine for more provender. And he was engaged in\nthis groping when Lad came in view, around a bend.\n\nThe big collie saw the basket standing there, unprotected and, so far\nas he knew, ownerless. Gravely he stepped forward, lifted the heavy\nreceptacle by the handle and turned about with it; still moving with\ndignified slowness. The table-setters were busy; and the car was\nbetween him and them.\n\nBy the time the other member of the party succeeded in finding the\nthings he was seeking under the rear seat, Lad had rounded the bend and\nwas out of sight. To this day, none of the motorists has the remotest\nsolution to the mystery of the vanished lunch.\n\nLad had not stolen the basket. He would have suffered himself to be cut\nin three, before sinking to theft or to any other sneaking act. He had\nfound a basket standing alone in the highroad, several feet away from\nthe nearest humans. He had no way of guessing it belonged to them. So\nfar as he was concerned, this was as much a lost article as had been\nthe gorgeous parasol. He had been praised to the skies for bringing the\nparasol and the thermos case to the Mistress. He had every reason to\nexpect the same meed of praise for this new gift.\n\nIndeed, to Lad's way of thinking, he might well hope for even higher\npraise. For the parasol had been an odorless and foolish thing of no\napparent usefulness; while this basket exhaled most heavenly scents of\nfried chicken and other delectable foods. Heavy as was the burden, it\ndid not occur to Lad to set it down. Fragrant as were its contents, it\ndid not occur to him to nose the cover off and sample them. There was\nno tinge of snooping in his make-up. No, the basket was a gift for the\nMistress. And as such he was bearing it home to her.\n\n\"See what Laddie brought me, this time!\" cried the Mistress, coming\ninto her husband's study, a few minutes later, and holding forth the\ntrophy. \"It's full of food, too; and of course he never touched a\nmouthful of it. But I gave him two of the frosted cakes, by way of\nreward. He's ridiculously happy over them,--and over the fuss I made\nabout the basket.\"\n\n\"H'm!\" mused the Master, inspecting the present. \"Jostled off the\ncar-seat, as some fool of a driver took the curve at top speed! Well,\nthat same driver has paid for his recklessness, by the loss of his\nlunch. It's funny, though--There's not a trace of mud or dust on this;\nand even the food inside wasn't jostled about by the tumble. That curve\nis paying us big dividends, lately. It's a pity no bullion trucks pass\nthis way. Still, parasols and picnic lunches aren't to be sneered at.\"\n\nLad was standing in the study doorway, eyes alight, tail waving. The\nMaster called him over and petted him; praising this newest\naccomplishment of his, and prophesying untold wealth for the Place if\nthe graft should but continue long enough.\n\nThere was something pathetic in dear old Laddie's pleasure over the new\ntrick he had learned; or so it seemed to the two people who loved him.\nAnd they continued to flatter him for it;--even when, among other\ntrophies, he dragged home a pickaxe momentarily laid aside by a road\nmender; and an extremely dead chicken which a motor-truck wheel had\nflattened to waferlike thickness.\n\nWhich brings us, by degrees to the Rennick kidnaping case.\n\nClaude Rennick, a New York artist of considerable means, had rented for\nthe summer an ancient Colonial farmhouse high among the Ramapo hills;\nsome six miles north of the Place, There, he and his pretty young wife\nand their six-months-old baby had been living for several weeks; when,\nangered at a sharp rebuke for some dereliction in his work, Schwartz,\ntheir gardener, spoke insultingly to Mrs. Rennick.\n\nRennick chanced to overhear. Being aggressively in love with his wife,\nhe did not content himself with discharging Schwartz. Instead, he\nthrashed the stalwart gardener, then and there; and ended the drastic\nperformance by pitching the beaten man, bodily, out of the grounds.\n\nSchwartz collected his battered anatomy and limped away to his home in\nthe hills just above. And, that night, he called into council his two\nfarmhand brothers and his wife.\n\nSeveral characteristic plans of revenge were discussed in solemn\ndetail. These included the burning of the Rennick house or barn, or\nboth; the shooting of Rennick from among the hillside boulders as the\nartist sketched; of waylaying him on his walk to the post-office, by\nnight, and crippling him for life; and other suggestions equally dear\nto the hearts of rural malefactors.\n\nBut one plan after another was vetoed. To burn any of the property\nwould cause Rennick nothing worse than temporary annoyance; as he\nmerely rented the farm. Daylight shooting was a dangerous and uncertain\njob; especially since automobiles had opened up the district to\nconstantly passing outsiders. It was Schwartz himself who decided\nagainst waylaying his foe by night. He had too recent memories of\nRennick's physical prowess to care about risking a second dose of the\nsame medicine. And so on with the other proposals. One and all were\nrejected.\n\nThen it was that Mrs. Schwartz hit upon an idea which promised not only\npunishment, but profit. She had done washing for the Rennicks and she\nhad access to the house. She proposed that they steal the Rennick baby,\non the first night when opportunity should offer; carry him to a car\nthe brothers were to have waiting; and thence take him to her sister in\nPaterson.\n\nThere, the youngster would be well cared for. In a family of not less\nthan seven children, the presence of an extra baby would not excite\npolice query. Her sister had more than once taken babies to board with\nher, during their mothers' temporary absence in service or in jail. And\nthe newcomer could pass readily as one of these.\n\nNegotiations could set in; and, if care were taken, a reward of at\nleast two thousand dollars might be extracted safely from the frantic\nparents. Thus, the Rennicks could be made to sweat blood and money too,\nin payment of the injuries wrought upon the aching frame of Schwartz.\nAt first, the three men sheered off from the plan. Kidnaping is a word\nwith an ugly sound. Kidnaping is a deed with ugly consequences.\nKidnaping is a crime whose perpetrators can hope for no atom of\nsympathy from anybody. Kidnaping is perilous, past words.\n\nBut, deftly, Mrs. Schwartz met and conquered the difficulties raised.\nIn the first place, the baby would come to no harm. Her sister would\nsee to that. In the second, the matter of the reward and of the return\ncould be juggled so as to elude detectives and rural constables. She\nhad known of such a case. And she related the details;--clever yet\nutterly simple details, and fraught with safety to all\nconcerned;--details which, for that very reason, need not be cited here.\n\nBit by bit, she went on with her outline of the campaign; testing each\nstep and proving the practicability of each.\n\nThe next Thursday evening, Rennick and his wife went, as usual, to the\nweekly meeting of a neighborhood bridge club which they had joined for\nthe summer. The baby was left in charge of a competent nurse. At nine\no'clock, the nurse went to the telephone in reply to a call purporting\nto be from an attendant at a New York hospital.\n\nThis call occupied the best part of twenty minutes. For the attendant\nproceeded to tell her in a very roundabout way that her son had been\nrun over and had come to the hospital with a broken leg. He dribbled\nthe information; and was agonizingly long-winded and vague in answering\nher volley of frightened questions.\n\nShaken between duty to her job and a yearning to catch the next train\nfor town, the nurse went back at last to the nursery. The baby's crib\nwas empty.\n\nIt had been the simplest thing in the world for Mrs. Schwartz to enter\nthe house by the unfastened front door, while one of her husband's\nbrothers held the nurse in telephone talk; and to go up to the nursery,\nunseen, while the other servants were in the kitchen quarters. There\nshe had picked up the baby and had carried him gently down to the front\ndoor and out of the grounds.\n\nOne of Schwartz's brothers was waiting, beyond the gate; with a\ndisreputable little runabout. Presently, the second brother joined him.\nMrs. Schwartz lifted the baby into the car. One of the men held it\nwhile the other took his place at the steering wheel. The runabout had\nstarted upon its orderly fourteen-mile trip to Paterson, before the\npanic stricken nurse could give the alarm.\n\nMrs. Schwartz then walked toward the village, where her husband met\nher. The two proceeded together to the local motion picture theater.\nThere, they laughed so loudly over the comedy on the screen that the\nmanager had to warn them to be quieter. At once, the couple became\nnoisily abusive. And they were ordered ignominiously from the theater.\nThere could scarcely have been a better alibi to prove their absence of\ncomplicity in the kidnaping.\n\nMeanwhile, the two brothers continued quietly on their journey toward\nPaterson. The baby slept. His bearer had laid him softly on the floor\nof the car. A few drops of paregoric, administered by Mrs. Schwartz as\nthe child awoke for an instant on the way to the gate, insured sound\nslumber. The joggling of the car did not rouse the tiny sleeper; as he\nlay snugly between the feet of the man into whose care he had been\ngiven.\n\nThe first six miles of the easy journey were soon traversed. Then, with\na pop and a dispiritedly swishing sound, a rear tire collapsed. Out\ninto the road jumped both men. Their nerves were none too steady. And,\nalready, in fancy they could hear all the police cars in New Jersey\nclose at their heels. It behooved them to change tires in a hurry, and\nto finish their nerve-twisting trip.\n\nThe driver vaulted over the side nearest him and began to explore the\nunder-seat regions for a jack. The other man picked up the baby and\nhurried to the rear of the runabout to detach the spare tire from its\ndusty rack. Manifestly, he could not unstrap the tire while he was\ncarrying a baby in his arms. So he set down his burden at the roadside,\nnear him.\n\nThen, still obsessed by fear of pursuit, he hit on a safer scheme.\nPicking up the sleeper again, he carried the warm little bundle to the\nfar side of the road, some thirty yards beyond, and deposited it there,\nbehind a dwarf alder bush which screened it from any stray automobilist\nwho might be passing. Thus, in case of pursuit, he and his brother\nwould merely be changing tires; and would know nothing of any missing\nbaby.\n\nFailing to find a jack under the seat, the driver climbed over into the\nadjoining field in search of two or three big stones to serve the same\npurpose in holding up the axle. For several minutes the men worked fast\nand tensely; blind and deaf to anything except the need of haste.\n\nThus it was that neither of them saw a tawny-and-snow collie,--huge and\nshaggy except for a pair of absurdly tiny white forepaws,--come pacing\nmajestically along the road from the direction in which they were\nheading. The car lamps played but faintly upon the advancing Lad; for\nthe dimmers had been applied.\n\nThe big dog was taking his usual before-bedtime stroll. Of old, that\nevening stroll had been confined to the Place's grounds, a quarter-mile\nbeyond. But, lately, his new obsession for finding treasures for the\nMistress had lured him often and oftener to the highway.\n\nTonight, as for a day or so past, he had drawn blank in his quest. The\nroad had been distressingly bare of anything worth carrying home. But,\nnow, as he moved along, his near-sighted eyes were attracted by a dim\nblur of white, behind a bush, at the road-edge; just within the dim\nradiance of the car-lamps. Even sooner than he saw this, his keen\nnostrils had told him of human presence there. He shifted his course to\ninvestigate.\n\nStanding over the compactly-fastened swathing of clothes, Laddie bent\ndown and sniffed. It was a human. He knew that; in spite of the thick\nveil that covered the slumberer's face. But it was also a bundle. It\nwas a bundle which might well be expected to delight the Mistress\nalmost as much as had the parasol;--far more than had the defunct\nchicken.\n\nDaintily, with infinite gentleness, Lad fixed his teeth in the loosest\nportion of the bundle that he could find; and lifted it. It was\namazingly heavy, even for so powerful a dog. But difficulties had never\nyet swerved Lad from any set purpose. Bracing his strength, he turned\nhomeward, carrying the burden between his mighty jaws.\n\nAnd now, he was aware of some subtler feeling than mere desire to bring\nthe Mistress one more gift. His great heart had ever gone out in loving\ntenderness toward everything helpless and little. He adored children.\nThe roughest of them could take unpardonable liberties with him. He\nwould let them maul and mistreat him to their heart's content; and he\nreveled in such usage; although to humans other than the Mistress and\nthe Master, he was sternly resentful of any familiarity.\n\nHis senses told him this bundle contained a child;--a baby. It had been\nlying alone and defenseless beside the road. He had found it. And his\nheart warmed to the helpless little creature which was so heavy to\ncarry.\n\nProudly, now, he strode along; his muscles tensed; moving as if on\nparade. The bundle swinging from his jaws was carried as lovingly as\nthough it might break in sixty pieces at any careless step.\n\nThe spare tire was adjusted. The men glanced nervously up and down the\nroad. No car or pedestrian was in sight. The driver scrambled to his\nplace at the wheel. His brother crossed to the alder bush behind whose\nshelter he had left the baby. Back he came, on the run.\n\n\"'Tain't there!\" he blithered. \"'Tain't there! 'Tain't rolled nowheres,\nneither. It's been took! Lord! What're we goin' to--?\"\n\nHe got no further. His brother had scrambled down from the seat; and\npushed him aside, in a dash for the alder. But a few seconds of frantic\nsearch proved the baby was gone. The two men glared at each other in\nsilent horror. Then by tacit impulse they got into the car.\n\n\"It couldn't 'a' walked off, could it?\" gurgled the driver. \"They can't\nwalk, can they;--not at six months? Not far, anyhow?\"\n\n\"It--it was took!\" sputtered his brother between chattering teeth.\n\nAnother moment of scared silence. Then the driver rallied his awed\nfaculties. Stepping on the self-starter, he brought the runabout into\nmotion, and headed down the road.\n\n\"Where are you goin'?\" queried the other. \"No use a-keepin' on, this\nd'rection. It--\"\n\n\n\"If it was took,\" answered the driver, truculently, \"'twasn't took by\nno car. We'd 'a' heard a car or we'd 'a' saw it. If it had been took by\ntwo or three folks a-walkin', we'd 'a' heard 'em blat to each other\nwhen they seen the kid layin' there. That means it was took by one\nperson, all alone. He didn't pass us, while we was workin'. Then,\nunless he's took to the fields, he's a-goin' the same way we are. An'\nwe're due to overhaul him. There'll only just be one of him; and\nthere's two of us. I ain't aimin' to lose my slice of that two\nthousand; without hittin' a single lick to get it. If he--SUFFERIN'\nPINK SNAKES!\"\n\nIn his sudden dismay, he drove down both feet on the pedals. The\nindignant car stalled. Through the blackness ahead, the white ray from\nthe lamps had picked up a weird object. And the two brethren stared at\nit, slack-jawed.\n\nWalking sedately on, in front of the stalled runabout, and in the exact\ncentre of the dusty road, moved an animal. Huge and formless it bulked,\nas it receded into the fainter glow of light. It might have been\nanything from a lion to a bear; in that uncertain glimmer. But, the\nlamps' rays played strongly enough on one detail of the apparition to\nidentify it, past doubt, to both the dumfounded onlookers. They saw,\nclearly enough, a white bundle suspended from the monster's\njaws;--unquestionably the bundle which had been laid behind the alder.\n\nFor perhaps ten seconds the men sat moveless, gaping goggle-eyed. Then,\nthe driver murmured in a faraway voice:\n\n\"Did you--did you--was you fool enough to think you seen anything? Was\nyou, Eitel?\"\n\n\"I-I sure seen SUTHIN', Roodie,\" quavered Eitel. \"Suthin' with--with\nthe kid in its mouth. It--\"\n\n\"That's good enough for me!\" announced the heroic Roodie, stamping\nagain on the self-starter.\n\n\"If we both seen it, then it was THERE. And I'm goin' after it.\"\n\nIn another brace of seconds the lights once, more picked up the dark\nanimal with its white bundle. Eitel shrank back in his seat. But Roodie\nput on another notch of gas. And, coming closer, both recognized the\nstrange bundle-carrier as a dark-hued collie dog.\n\nThe identification did little to ease their feeling of incredulous\nmystification. But it banished their superstitious dread. Both of them\nwere used to dogs. And though neither could guess how this particular\ndog happened to be stealing the twice-stolen baby, yet neither had the\nremotest fear of tackling the beast and rescuing its human plunder.\n\nRoodie brought the abused runabout to another jerky stop within a few\ninches of the unconcerned collie. And he and Eitel swarmed earthward\nfrom opposite sides of the machine. In a trice, Roodie had struck Lad\nover the head; while Eitel grabbed at the bundle to drag it away from\nthe dog.\n\nNow, the weight of years was beginning to tell on Laddie. But that\nweight had not robbed him of the ability to call, at will, upon much of\nhis oldtime strength and bewildering swiftness. Nor had it in any way\ndampened his hero-spirit or dulled his uncannily wise brain.\n\nHe had been plodding peacefully along, bearing home a wonderful gift--a\ngift oftener confided to the care of storks than of collies--when he\nhad been attacked from two sides in most unprovoked fashion. He had\nbeen struck! His blood surged hot.\n\nThere was no Law governing such a case. So, as usual in new crises, Lad\nproceeded to make his own Law and to put it into effect.\n\nA deft turn of the head eluded Eitel's snatching hand. With the\nlightness of a feather, Lad deposited the bundle in the soft dust of\nthe road. In practically, the same gesture, the dog's curving eye-tooth\nslashed Eitel's outstretched wrist to the bone.\n\nThen, staggering under a second head-blow from Roodie, the collie\nwheeled with lightning-swift fury upon this more hostile of his two\nassailants.\n\nHurling himself at the man's throat, in silent ferocity, he well-nigh\nturned the nocturnal battle into a killing. But Roodie's left arm, by\ninstinct, flew up to guard his threatened jugular.\n\nThrough coat and shirt and skin and flesh,--as in the case of Lady's\nslayer,--the great dog's teeth clove their way; their rending snap\nchecked only by the bone of the forearm. The impetus of his\neighty-pound body sent the man clean off his balance. And together the\ntwo crashed backward to the ground.\n\nLad was not of the bulldog breed which seeks and gains a hold and then\nhangs on to it with locked jaws. A collie fights with brain as much as\nwith teeth. By the time he and Roodie struck the earth, Lad tore free\nfrom the unloving embrace and whizzed about to face the second of his\nfoes.\n\nEitel had taken advantage of the moment's respite to seize with his\nuninjured hand his slashed wrist. Then, on second thought, he released\nthe wounded wrist and bent over the baby; with a view to picking him up\nand regaining the comparative safety of the car's floor. But his\nwell-devised maneuver was not carried out.\n\nFor, as he leaned over the bundle, extending his hands to pick it up,\nLad's teeth drove fiercely into the section of Eitel's plump anatomy\nwhich chanced to be presented to him by the stooping down of the\nkidnaper. Deep clove his sharp fangs. Nor did Eitel Schwartz sit down\nagain with any degree of comfort for many a long day.\n\nWith resounding howls of pain, Eitel thrashed up and down the road;\nendeavoring to shake off this rear attack. The noise awakened the baby;\nwho added his wails to the din. Roodie got dizzily to his feet; his\nleft forearm useless and anguished from the tearing of its muscles:\n\n\"Shut up!\" he bellowed. \"You want to bring the whole county down on us?\nWe--\"\n\nHe ceased speaking; and lurched at full speed to the car and to the top\nof its single seat. For, at sound of his voice, Lad had loosed his grip\non the screeching Eitel and whirled about on this earlier adversary.\n\nThe man reached the car-seat and slammed the door behind him, perhaps a\nsixth of a second too soon for Lad to reach him.\n\nEitel, warned by his brother's bawled command, made a rush for the\nother side of the machine and clambered up. He was a trifle less\nfortunate than had been Roodie, in making this ascent. For Lad's\nflashing jaws grazed his ankle and carried away in that snap a sample\nof Eitel's best town-going trousers.\n\nThus, on the seat of the car, swaying, and clutching at each other,\ncrouched the two sore-wounded brethren; while Lad ravened about the\nvehicle, springing upward now and, again in futile effort to clear the\ntop of the closed door.\n\nFar down the road shone the lights of an approaching motor. Eitel\ndropped into the driving seat and set the runabout into motion. Once\nmore, the dread of pursuit and of capture and of prison danced\nhideously before his frightened mental vision.\n\nBarely missing the crying baby, as the runabout jerked forward, he made\na fruitless attempt to run down the raging collie. Then he addressed\nhimself to the business of getting himself and his brother as far out\nof the way as possible, before the oncoming car should reach the scene\nof strife.\n\nAs a matter of fact, the other car never reached this spot. Its\noccupants were two youths and two damsels, in search of a sequestered\nspace of road where they might halt for a brief but delectable \"petting\nparty,\" on their way to a dance in the village. They found such a\nspace, about a furlong on the thither side of the curve where the\nrunabout had stopped. And they advanced no farther.\n\nLad, for a few rods, gave chase to the retreating Schwartzes. Then, the\nheavy exertions of the past minute or two began to exact toll on his\naging body. Also, the baby was still whimpering in a drowsy monotone,\nas the paregoric sought to renew its sway on the racket awakened brain.\n\nThe dog turned pantingly back to the bundle; pawed it softly, as though\nto make sure the contents were not harmed; then once more picked it up\ngingerly between his reddened jaws; and continued his sedate homeward\njourney.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were sitting on the veranda. It was almost\nbedtime. The Master arose, to begin his nightly task of locking the\nlower windows. From somewhere on the highroad that lay two hundred\nyards distant from the house, came the confused noise of shouts. Then,\nas he listened, the far-off sounds ceased. He went on with his task of\nlocking up; and returned in a minute or two to the veranda.\n\nAs he did so, Lad came walking slowly up the porch steps. In his mouth\nhe carried something large and white and dusty. This he proceeded to\ndeposit with much care at the feet of the Mistress. Then he stood back;\ntail waving, dark eyes mischievously expectant.\n\n\"Another dividend from the curve!\" laughed the Master. \"What is it,\nthis time? A pillow or--?\"\n\nHe broke off in the middle of his amused query. For, even as he turned\nhis flashlight on the dusty and blood-streaked bundle, the baby began\nonce more to cry.\n\nThe local chief of police, in the village across the lake, was making\nready for bed, when a telephone summons brought him back to his lower\nhallway.\n\n\"Hello!\" came the Master's hail, over the wire. \"Chief, has there been\nany alarm sent out for--for a missing baby?\"\n\n\"Baby?\" echoed the Chief. \"No. Have you lost one?\"\n\n\"No. I've found one. At least, Laddie has. He's just brought it home.\nIt is dressed in unusually costly things, my wife says. There was a\nwhite baby-blanket strapped around it. And there are dust and streaks\nof fresh blood on the blanket.  But the baby himself isn't hurt at all.\nAnd--\"\n\n\"I'll be over there, in fifteen minutes,\" said the Chief, alive with\nprofessional interest.\n\nBut in ten minutes he was on the wire once more.\n\n\"Has the baby blanket got the monogram, 'B.R.R', on one corner?\" he\nasked excitedly.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the Master. \"I was going to tell you that, when you\nhung up. And on--\"\n\n\"That's the one!\" fairly shouted the Chief. \"As soon as you finished\ntalking to me, I got another call. General alarm out for a kidnaped\nbaby. Belongs to those Rennick people, up the Valley. The artists that\nrented the old Beasley place this summer. The baby was stolen, an hour\nago; right out of the nursery. I'll phone 'em that he's found; and then\nI'll be over.\"\n\n\"All right. There's another queer point about all this. Our dog--\"\n\n\"Speaking of dogs,\" went on the garrulous Chief, \"this is a wakeful\nevening for me. I just got a call from the drug store that a couple of\nfellows have stopped there to get patched up from dog-bites. They say a\ndozen stray curs set on 'em, while they were changing a tire. The\ndruggist thought they acted queer, contradicting each other in bits of\ntheir story. So he's taking his time, fixing them; till I can drop in\non my way to your house and give 'em the once over. So---\"\n\n\"Do more than that!\" decreed the Master, on quick inspiration. \"What I\nstarted to tell you is that there's blood on Lad's jaws; as well as on\nthe baby's blanket. If two men say they've been bitten by dogs--\"\n\n\"I get you!\" yelled the other. \"Good-by! I got no time to waste, when a\nclew like that is shaken in front of me. See you later!\"\n\nLong before the Chief arrived at the Place with triumphant tidings of\nhis success in \"sweating\" the truth from the mangled and nerve-racked\nSchwartzes, the two other actors in the evening's drama were miles away\namong the sunflecked shadows of Dreamland.\n\nThe baby, industriously and unsanitarily sucking one pudgy thumb, was\ncuddled down to sleep in the Mistress's lap. And, in the depths of his\ncave under the living-room piano, Lad was stretched at perfect ease;\nhis tiny white forepaws straight in front of him.\n\nBut his deep breathing was interrupted, now and then, by a muttered\nsigh. For, at last, one of his beautiful presents had failed to cause\nhappiness and praise from his gods. Instead, it had apparently turned\nthe whole household inside out; to judge by the noisy excitement and\nthe telephoning and all. And, even in sleep, the old dog felt justly\nchagrined at the way his loveliest present to the Mistress had been\nreceived.\n\nIt was so hard to find out what humans would enjoy and what they\nwouldn't!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. The Intruders\n\nIt began with a gap in a line fence. The gap should never have been\nthere. For, on the far side of it roamed creatures whose chief zest in\nlife is the finding of such gaps and in breaking through for forage.\n\nThe Place's acreage ended, to northward, in the center of an oak grove\nwhose northern half was owned by one Titus Romaine; a crabbed little\nfarmer of the old school. Into his half of the grove, in autumn when\nmast lay thick and rich amid the tawny dead leaves, Romaine was wont to\nturn his herd of swine.\n\nTo Lad, the giant collie, this was always a trying season. For longer\nthan he could remember, Lad had been the official watchdog of the\nPlace. And his chief duties were to keep two-footed and four-footed\nstrays from trespassing thereon.\n\nTo an inch, he knew the boundaries of the Master's land. And he knew\nthat no human intruder was to be molested; so long as such intruder had\nthe sense to walk straight down the driveway to the house. But woe to\nthe tramp or other trespasser who chanced to come cross lots or to\nwander in any way off the drive! Woe also to such occasional cattle or\nother livestock as drifted in from the road or by way of a casual\nfence-gap!\n\nHuman invaders were to be met in drastic fashion. Quadruped trespassers\nwere to be rounded up and swept at a gallop up the drive and out into\nthe highroad. With cattle or with stray horses this was an easy job;\nand it contained, withal, much fun;--at least, for Lad.\n\nBut, pigs were different.\n\nExperience and instinct had taught Lad what few humans realize. Namely,\nthat of all created beasts, the pig is the worst and meanest and most\nvicious; and hardest to drive. When a horse or a cow, or a drove of\nthem, wandered into the confines of the Place, it was simple and joyous\nto head them off, turn them, set them into a gallop and send them on\ntheir journey at top speed. It took little skill and less trouble to do\nthis. Besides, it was gorgeous sport. But pigs--!\n\nWhen a porker wriggled and hunched and nosed a space in the line fence,\nand slithered greasily through, Lad's work was cut out for him. It\nlooked simple enough. But it was not simple. Nor was it safe.\n\nIn the first instance, pigs were hard to start running. Oftener than\nnot they would stand, braced, and glare at the oncoming collie from out\ntheir evil little red-rimmed eyes; the snouts above the hideous masked\ntushes quivering avidly. That meant Lad must circle them, at whirlwind\nspeed; barking a thunderous fanfare to confuse them; and watching his\nchance to flash in and nip ear or flank; or otherwise get the brutes to\nrunning.\n\nAnd, even on the run, they had an ugly way of wheeling, at close\nquarters, to face the pursuer. The razor tushes and the pronged\nforefeet were always ready, at such times, to wreak death on the dog,\nunless he should have the wit and the skill and the speed to change, in\na breath, the direction of his dash. No, pigs were not pleasant\ntrespassers. There was no fun in routing them. And there was real\ndanger.\n\nExcept by dint of swiftness and of brain; an eighty-pound collie has no\nchance against a six-hundred-pound pig. The pig's hide, for one thing,\nis too thick to pierce with an average slash or nip: And the pig is too\nclose to earth and too well-balanced by build and weight, to be\noverturned: And the tushes and forefeet can move with deceptive\nquickness. Also, back of the red-rimmed little eyes flickers the redder\nspirit of murder.\n\nLocomotive engineers say a cow on a track is far less perilous to an\noncoming train than is a pig. The former can be lifted, by the impact,\nand flung to one side. A pig, oftener than not, derails the engine.\nStanding with the bulk of its weight close to the ground, it is\nwell-nigh as bad an obstacle to trains as would be a boulder of the\nsame size. Lad had never met any engineers. But he had identically\ntheir opinion of pigs.\n\nIn all his long life, the great collie had never known fear. At least,\nhe never had yielded to it. Wherefore, in the autumns, he had attacked\nwith gay zest such of Titus Romaine's swine as had found their way\nthrough the fence.\n\nBut, nowadays, there was little enough of gay zest about anything\nLaddie did. For he was old;--very, very old. He had passed the\nfourteenth milestone. In other words, he was as old for a dog as is an\noctogenarian for a man.\n\nAlmost imperceptibly, but to his indignant annoyance, age had crept\nupon the big dog; gradually blurring his long clean lines; silvering\nhis muzzle and eyebrows; flecking his burnished mahogany coat with\nstipples of silver; spreading to greater size the absurdly small white\nforepaws which were his one gross vanity; dulling a little the\npreternaturally keen hearing and narrowing the vision.\n\nYes, Lad was old. And he was a bit unwieldy from weight and from age.\nNo longer could he lead Wolf and Bruce in the forest rabbit chases.\nWherefore he stayed at home, for the most part and seldom strayed far\nfrom the Mistress and the Master whom he worshiped.\n\nMoreover, he deputed the bulk of trespass-repelling to his fiery little\nson, Wolf; and to the graver and sweeter Bruce;--\"Bruce, the Beautiful.\"\n\nWhich brings us by needfully prosy degrees to a morning, when two\nmarauders came to the Place at the same time, if by different routes.\nThey could not well have come at a more propitious time, for\nthemselves; nor at a worse time for those whose domain they visited.\n\nBruce and Wolf had trotted idly off to the forest, back of the Place,\nfor a desultory ramble in quest of rabbits or squirrels. This they had\ndone because they were bored. For, the Mistress and the Master had\ndriven over for the morning mail; and Lad had gone with them, as usual.\nHad it been night, instead of morning, neither Wolf nor Bruce would\nhave stirred a step from the grounds. For both were trained watchdogs,\nBut, thus early in the day, neither duty nor companionship held them at\nhome. And the autumn woods promised a half-hour of mild sport.\n\nThe superintendent and his helpers were in the distant \"upper field,\"\nworking around the roots of some young fruit trees. But for the maids,\nbusy indoors, the Place was deserted of human or canine life.\n\nThus, luck was with the two intruders.\n\nThrough the fence-gap in the oak-grove, bored Titus Romaine's hugest\nand oldest and crankiest sow. She was in search of acorns and of any\nother food that might lie handy to her line of march. In her owner's\npart of the grove, there was too much competition, in the food-hunt,\nfrom other and equally greedy pigs of the herd. These she could fight\noff and drive from the choicest acorn-hoards. But it was easier to\nforage without competition.\n\nSo through the gap she forced her grunting bulk; and on through the\nPlace's half of the oak-grove. Pausing now and then to root amid the\nstrewn leaves, she made her leisurely way toward the open lawn with its\ntwo-hundred-year-old shade-oaks, and its flower-borders which still\nheld a few toothsome bulbs.\n\nThe second intruder entered the grounds in much more open fashion. He\nwas a man in the late twenties; well-set up, neatly, even sprucely,\ndressed; and he walked with a slight swagger. He looked very much at\nhome and very certain of his welcome.\n\nA casual student of human nature would have guessed him to be a\ntraveling salesman, finely equipped with nerve and with confidence in\nhis own goods. The average servant would have been vastly impressed\nwith his air of self assurance; and would have admitted him to the\nhouse, without question. (The long-memoried warden of Auburn Prison\nwould have recognized him as Alf Dugan, one of the cleverest automobile\nthieves in the East.)\n\nMr. Dugan was an industrious young man; as well as ingenious. And he\nhad a streak of quick-witted audacity which made him an ornament to his\nchosen profession. His method of work was simple. Coming to a rural\nneighborhood, he would stop at some local hotel, and, armed with clever\npatter and a sheaf of automobile insurance documents, would make the\nrounds of the region's better-class homes.\n\nAt these he sold no automobile insurance; though he made seemingly\nearnest efforts to do so. But he learned the precise location of each\ngarage; the cars therein; and the easiest way to the highroad, and any\npossible obstacles to a hasty flight thereto. Usually, he succeeded in\npersuading his reluctant host to take him to the garage to look at the\ncars and to estimate the insurable value of each. While there, it was\neasy to palm a key or to get a good look at the garage padlock for\nfuture skeleton-key reference; or to note what sort of car-locks were\nused.\n\nA night or two later, the garage was entered and the best car was\nstolen. Dugan, like love, laughed at locksmiths.\n\nSometimes,--notably in places where dogs were kept,--he would make his\ninitial visit and then, choosing a time when he had seen some of the\nhouse's occupants go for a walk with their dogs, would enter by broad\ndaylight, and take a chance at getting the car out, unobserved. If he\nwere interrupted before starting off in the machine, why, he was that\nsame polite insurance aunt who had come back to revise his estimate on\nthe premium needed for the car; and was taking another look at it to\nmake certain. Once in the driver's seat and with the engine going, he\nhad no fear of capture. A whizzing rush to the highroad and down it to\nthe point where his confederate waited with the new number-plates; and\nhe could snap his fat fingers at pursuit.\n\nDugan had called at the Place, a week earlier. He had taken interested\nnote of the little garage's two cars and of the unlocked garage doors.\nHe had taken less approving note of the three guardian collies: Lad,\nstill magnificent and formidable, in spite of his weight of\nyears;--Bruce, gloriously beautiful and stately and aloof;--young Wolf,\nwith the fire and fierce agility of a tiger-cat. All three had watched\nhim, grimly. None had offered the slightest move to make friends with\nthe smooth-spoken visitor. Dogs have a queerly occult sixth sense,\nsometimes, in regard to those who mean ill to their masters.\n\nThis morning, idling along the highroad, a furlong from the Place's\nstone gateway, Dugan had seen the Mistress and the Master drive past in\nthe smaller of the two cars. He had seen Lad with them. A little later,\nhe had seen the men cross the road toward the upper field. Then, almost\non the men's heels, he had seen Bruce and Wolf canter across the same\nroad; headed for the forest. And Dugan's correctly stolid face rippled\ninto a pleased smile.\n\nQuickening his pace, he hurried on to the gateway and down the drive.\nBut, as he passed the house on his way to the garage where stood the\nother and larger car, he paused. Out of an ever-vigilant eye-corner, he\nsaw an automobile turn in at the gateway, two hundred yards up the\nwooded slope; and start down the drive.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were returning from the post office.\n\nDugan's smile vanished. He stopped in his tracks; and did some fast\nthinking. Then, mounting the veranda steps, he knocked boldly at a side\ndoor; the door nearest to him. As the maids were in the kitchen or\nmaking up the bedrooms, his knock was unheard. Half hidden by the\nveranda vines, he waited.\n\nThe car came down the driveway and circled the house to the side\nfarthest from Dugan. There, at the front door, it halted. The Mistress\nand Lad got out. The Master did not go down to the garage. Instead, he\ncircled the house again; and chugged off up the drive; bound for the\nstation to meet a guest whose train was due in another ten minutes.\nDugan drew a long breath; and swaggered toward the garage. His walk and\nmanner had in them an easy openness that no honest man's could possibly\nhave acquired in a lifetime.\n\nThe Mistress, deposited at the front veranda, chirped to Lad; and\nstarted across the lawn toward the chrysanthemum bed, a hundred feet\naway.\n\nThe summer's flowers were gone--even to the latest thin stemmed Teplitz\nrose and the last stalk of rose-tinted cosmos. For dining table, now,\nand for living-room and guest rooms, nothing was left but the mauve and\nbronze hardy chrysanthemums which made gay the flower border at the\ncrest of the lawn overlooking the lake. Thither fared the Mistress, in\nsearch of blossoms.\n\nBetween her and the chrysanthemum border was a bed of canvas. Frost had\nsmitten the tall, dark stems; leaving only a copse of brown stalks. Out\nof this copse, chewing greedily at an uprooted bunch of canna-bulbs,\nslouched Romaine's wandering sow. At, sight of the Mistress, she paused\nin her leisurely progress and, with the bunch of bulbs still hanging\nfrom one corner of her shark-mouth, stood blinking truculently at the\nastonished woman.\n\nNow, Lad had not obeyed the Mistress's soft chirp. It had not reached\nhis dulling ears;--the ears which, of old, had caught her faintest\nwhisper. Yet, he would have followed her, as ever, without such\nsummons, had not his nostrils suddenly become aware of an alien scent.\n\nLad's sense of smell, like his hearing, was far less keen than once it\nhad been. But, it was still strong enough to register the trace of\nintruders. His hackles bristled. Up went the classically splendid head,\nto sniff the light breeze, for further information as to the reek of\npig and the lighter but more disquieting scent of man.\n\nTurning his head, to reinforce with his near-sighted eyes the failing\nevidence of his nostrils, he saw the sow emerge from the canna-clump.\nHe saw, too--or he divined--the look in her pale little red-rimmed\neyes; as they glared defiantly at the Mistress. And Lad cleared the\nporch steps at one long leap.\n\nFor the instant, he forgot he was aged and stout and that his joints\nached at any sudden motion; and that his wind and his heart were not\nwhat they had been;--and that his once-terrible fangs were yellowed and\nblunt; and that his primal strength was forever fled. Peril was facing\nthe Mistress. That was all Laddie knew or cared. With his wonted\ntrumpet-bark of challenge, he sped toward her.\n\nThe Mistress, recovering from her surprise at the apparition of the\nhuge pig, noticed the bunch of canna-bulbs dangling from the slobbery\nlips. This very week all the bulbs were to have been dug up and taken\ninto the greenhouse, for the winter. Angered,--with all a true\nflower-lover's indignation,--at this desecrating of one of her beloved\nplants, she caught up a stick which had been used as a rose-prop.\nBrandishing this, and crying \"Shoo!\" very valiantly indeed, she\nadvanced upon the sow.\n\nThe latter did not stir; except to lower her bristling head an inch or\nso; and let drop the bunch of bulbs from between her razor-teeth. The\nMistress advanced another step; and struck at the beast.\n\nThe sow veered, to avoid the blow; then, with ludicrous yet deadly\nswiftness, wheeled back and charged straight for the woman.\n\nMany a child and not a few grown men and women have gone down under\nsuch murderous charges; to be trampled and gouged and torn to death,\nbefore help could come. But the slaveringly foul jaws did not so much\nas touch the hem of the Mistress's dress.\n\nBetween her and the sow flashed a swirl of mahogany-and-snow. Lad,\ncharging at full speed, crashed into the forward-lurching\nsix-hundredweight of solid flesh and inch-thick hide.\n\nThe impact bowled him clean over, knocking the breath out of him. Not\nfrom choice had he made such a blundering and un-collielike attack. In\nother days, he could have flashed in and out again, with the speed of\nlight; leaving his antagonist with a slashed face or even a broken leg,\nas souvenir of his assault. But those days were past. His uncannily\nwise brain and his dauntless courage were all that remained of his\nancient prowess. And this brain and pluck told him his one chance of\nchecking the sow's charge on the Mistress was to hurl himself full at\nher.\n\nHis impetus, which had knock him flat, scarce slowed down the pig's\nlurching rush; scarce enabled the frightened Mistress to recoil a step.\nThen, the sow was lunging at her again, over the prostrate dog's body.\n\nBut, even as he fell, Lad had gathered his feet under him. And the\nshock which knocked him breathless did not make the wise brain waver in\nits plan of campaign. Before he sought to rise, up drove his bared\nteeth, at the sow that was plunging across him. And those teeth clove\ndeep into her pinkish nostrils;--well-nigh the only vulnerable spot,\n(as Lad knew) in her bristling pigskin armor.\n\nLad got his grip. And, with all his fragile old strength, he hung on;\ngrinding the outworn fangs further and further into the sensitive nose\nof his squealing foe.\n\nThis stopped the sow's impetuous charge; for good and all. With a heavy\ncollie hanging to one's tortured nose and that collie's teeth sunk deep\ninto it, there is no scope for thinking of any other opponent. She\nhalted, striking furiously, with her sharp cloven fore-hoofs, at the\nwrithing dog beneath her.\n\nOne ferociously driving hoof cut a gash in Lad's chest. Another tore\nthe skin from his shoulder. Unheeding, he hung on. The sow braced\nherself, solid, on outspread legs; and shook her head and forequarters\nwith all her muscular might.\n\nLad was hurled free, his weakened jaws failing to withstand such a\nyank. Over and over he rolled, to one side; the sow charging after him.\nShe had lost all interest in attacking the Mistress. Her flaming little\nbrain now held no thought except to kill and mangle the dog that had\nhurt her snout so cruelly. And she rushed at him, the tushes glinting\nfrom under her upcurled and bleeding lips.\n\nBut, the collie, for all his years and unwieldiness, was still a\ncollie. And, by the time he stopped rolling, he was scrambling to his\nfeet. Shrinking quickly to one side, as the sow bore down upon him, he\neluded her rush, by the fraction of an inch; and made a wolflike slash\nfor her underbody, as she hurtled by.\n\nThe blunted eyetooth made but a superficial furrow; which served only\nto madden its victim still further. Wheeling, she returned to the\nattack. Again, with a ghost of his old elusive speed; Laddie avoided\nher rush, by the narrowest of margins; and, snapping furiously, caught\nher by the ear.\n\nNow, more than once, in other frays, Lad had subdued and scared\ntrespassing pigs by this hold. But, in those days, his teeth had been\nkeen and his jaw strong enough to crack a beef bone. Moreover, the pigs\non which he had used it to such effect were not drunk with the lust of\nkilling.\n\nThe sow squealed, afresh, with pain; and once more braced herself and\nshook her head with all her might: Again, Lad was flung aside by that\nshake; this time with a fragment of torn ear between his teeth.\n\nAs she drove slaveringly at him once more, Lad swerved and darted in;\ndiving for her forelegs. With the collie, as with his ancestor, the\nwolf, this dive for the leg of an enemy is a favorite and tremendously\neffective trick in battle.  Lad found his hold, just above the right\npastern. And he exerted every atom of his power to break the bone or to\nsever the tendon.\n\nIn all the Bible's myriad tragic lines there is perhaps none other so\ninfinitely sad,--less for its actual significance than for what it\nimplies to every man or woman or animal, soon or late,--than that which\ndescribes the shorn Samson going forth in jaunty confidence to meet the\nPhilistines he so often and so easily had conquered:\n\n\"He wist not that the Lord was departed from him!\"\n\nTo all of us, to whom the doubtful blessing of old age is granted, must\ncome the black time when we shall essay a task which once we could\naccomplish with ease;--only to find its achievement has passed forever\nbeyond our waning powers. And so, this day, was it with Sunnybank Lad.\n\nOf yore, such a grip as he now secured would have ham strung or\notherwise maimed its victim and left her wallowing helpless. But the\ndull teeth merely barked the leg's tough skin. And a spasmodic jerk\nripped it loose from the dog's hold.\n\nLad barely had time to spring aside, to dodge the wheeling sow. He was\npanting heavily. His wounds were hurting and weakening him. His wind\nwas gone. His heart was doing queer things which made him sick and\ndizzy. His strength was turning to water. His courage alone blazed high\nand undimmed.\n\nNot once did it occur to him to seek safety in flight. He must have\nknown the probable outcome. For Lad knew much. But the great heart did\nnot flinch at the prospect. Feebly, yet dauntlessly, he came back to\nthe hopeless battle. The Mistress was in danger. And he alone could\nhelp.\n\nNo longer able to avoid the rushes, he met some of them with\npathetically useless jaws; going down under others and rising with ever\ngreater slowness and difficulty. The sow's ravening teeth found a goal,\nmore than once, in the burnished mahogany coat which the Mistress\nbrushed every day with such loving care. The pronged hoofs had twice\nmore cut him as he strove to roll aside from their onslaught after one\nof his heavy tumbles.\n\nThe end of the fight seemed very near. Yet Lad fought on. To the\nattack, after each upset or wound, he crawled with deathless courage.\n\nThe Mistress, at Lad's first charge, had stepped back. But, at once she\nhad caught up again the stick and belabored the sow with all her frail\nmuscular might. She might as well have been beating the side of a\nconcrete wall. Heedless of the flailing, the sow ignored her; and\ncontinued her maddened assault on Lad. The maids, attracted by the\nnoise, crowded the front doorway; clinging together and jabbering. To\nthem the Mistress called now for the Master's shotgun, from the study\nwall, and for a handful of shells.\n\nShe kept her head; though she saw she was powerless to save the dog she\nloved. And her soul was sick within her at his peril which her puny\nefforts could not avert.\n\nRunning across the lawn, toward the house, she met half way the maid\nwho came trembling forth with the gun and two shells. Without stopping\nto glance at the cartridges,--nor to realize that they were filled with\nNumber Eight shot, for quails,--she thrust two of them into the breech\nand, turning, fired pointblank at the sow.\n\nLad was down again; and the sow,--no longer in a squealing rush, but\nwith a new cold deadliness,--was gauging the distance to his exposed\nthroat. The first shot peppered her shoulder; the tiny pellets scarce\nscratching the tough hide.\n\nThe Mistress had, halted, to fire. Now, she ran forward: With the\nmuzzle not three feet from the sow's head, she pulled trigger again.\n\nThe pig's huge jaws road opened with deliberate width. One forefoot was\npinning the helplessly battling dog to earth, while she made ready to\ntear out his throat.\n\nThe second shot whizzed about her head and face. Two or three of the\npellets entered the open mouth.\n\nWith a sound that was neither grunt nor howl, yet which savored of\nboth, the sow lurched back from the flash and roar and the anguishing\npain in her tender mouth. The Mistress whirled aloft the empty and\nuseless gun and brought it crashing down on the pig's skull. The carved\nmahogany stock broke in two. The jar of impact knocked the weapon from\nits wielder's numbed fingers.\n\nThe sow seemed scarce to notice the blow. She continued backing away;\nand champed her jaws as if to locate the cause of the agony in her\nmouth. Her eyes were inflamed and dazed by the flash of the gun.\n\nThe Mistress took advantage of the moment's breathing space to bend\nover the staggeringly rising Lad; and, catching him by the ruff, to\nurge him toward the house. For once, the big collie refused to obey. He\nknew pig nature better than did she. And he knew the sow was not yet\nfinished with the battle. He strove to break free from the loved grasp\nand to stagger back to his adversary.\n\nThe Mistress, by main strength, drew him, snarling and protesting,\ntoward the safety of the house. Panting, bleeding, reeling, pitiably\nweak, yet he resisted the tender urging; and kept twisting his bloody\nhead back for a glimpse of his foe. Nor was the precaution useless.\nFor, before the Mistress and her wounded dog were half-way across the\nremaining strip of lawn, the sow recovered enough of her deflected wits\nand fury to lower her head and gallop down after them.\n\nAt her first step, Lad, by a stupendous effort, wrenched free from the\nMistress's clasp; and flung himself between her and the charging mass\nof pork. But, as he did so, he found breath for a trumpet-bark that\nsounded more like a rallying cry.\n\nFor, dulled as were his ears, they were still keener than any human's.\nAnd they had caught the sound of eight flying paws amid the dead leaves\nof the drive. Wolf and Bruce, coming home at a leisurely trot, from\ntheir ramble in the forest, had heard the two reports of the shotgun;\nand had broken into a run. They read the meaning in Lad's exhausted\nbark, as clearly as humans might read a printed word. And it lent wings\nto their feet.\n\nAround the corner of the house tore the two returning collies. In a\nsingle glance, they seemed to take in the whole grisly scene. They,\ntoo, had had their bouts with marauding swine; and they were still\nyoung enough to enjoy such clashes and to partake of them without\ndanger.\n\nThe sow, too blind with pain and rage to know reinforcements were\ncoming to the aid of the half-dead hero, tore forward. The Mistress,\nwith both hands, sought to drag Lad behind her. The maids screeched in\nplangent chorus.\n\nThen, just as the sow was launching herself on the futilely snapping\nLad, she was stupidly aware that the dog had somehow changed to three\ndogs. One of these three the Mistress was still holding. The two\nothers, with excellent teamwork, were assailing the sow from opposite\nsides.\n\nShe came to a sliding stop in her charge; blinking in bewildered fury.\n\nBruce had caught her by the torn left ear; and was keeping easily out\nof her way, while he inflicted torture thereon. Wolf, like a furry\nwhirlwind, had stopped only long enough to slash her bleeding nose to\nthe bone; and now was tearing away at her hind leg in an industrious\nand very promising effort to hamstring her. In front, Lad was still\nstraining to break the Mistress's loving hold; and to get at his\npestered enemy.\n\nThis was more than the huge porker had bargained for. Through all her\nmurder-rage, she had sense enough to know she was outnumbered and\nbeaten. She broke into a clumsy gallop; heading homeward.\n\nBut Bruce and Wolf would not have it so. Delightedly they tore in to\nthe attack. Their slashing fangs and their keenly nipping front teeth\nwere everywhere. They were all over her. In sudden panic, blinded by\nterror and pain, the sow put her six hundred pounds of unwieldy weight\ninto the fastest motion she could summon. At a scrambling run, she set\noff, around the house; head down, bitten tail aloft; the two dogs at\nher bleeding haunches.\n\nDimly, she saw a big and black obstacle loom up in her path. It was\ncoming noisily toward her. But she was going too fast and too blindly\nto swerve. And she met it, headlong; throwing her vast weight forward\nin an attempt to smash through it. At the same time, Wolf and Bruce\nleft off harrying her flanks and sprang aside.\n\nDugan had reached the garage unseen. There, he had backed out the car,\nby hand; shoving it into the open, lest the motor-whirr give premature\nannouncement of his presence. Then, as he boarded the machine and\nreached for the self-starter, all bedlam broke loose, from somewhere in\nthe general direction of the house, fifty yards away.\n\nDugan, glancing up apprehensively, beheld the first phases of the\nfight. Forgetting the need of haste and of secrecy, he sat there,\nopen-mouthed, watching a scrimmage which was beyond all his sporting\nexperience and which thrilled him as no prize-fight had ever done.\nMoveless, wide eyed, he witnessed the battle.\n\nBut the arrival of the two other dogs and the flight of the sow roused\nhim to a sense of the business which had brought him thither. The\nMistress and the maids had no eyes or ears for anything but the wounded\nLad. Dugan knew he could, in all probability, drive to the main road\nunnoticed; if he should keep the house between him and the women.\n\nHe pressed the self-starter; threw off the brake and put the car into\nmotion. Then, as he struck the level stretch of driveway, back of the\nhouse, he stepped hard on the accelerator. Here, for a few rods, was\ndanger of recognition; and it behooved him to make speed. He made it.\n\nForward bounded the car and struck a forty-mile gait. And around the\nhouse's far corner and straight toward Dugan came flying the sow and\nthe two collies. The dogs, at sight of the onrushing car, sprang aside.\nThe sow did not.\n\nIn the narrow roadway there was no room for Dugan to turn out. Nor did\nhe care to. Again and again he had run over dogs, without harming his\ncar or slackening its pace. And of course it would be the same with a\npig. He stepped harder on the accelerator.\n\nAlf Dugan came to his senses in the hospital ward of the Paterson jail.\nHe had not the faintest idea how he chanced to be there. When they told\nhim the car had turned turtle and that he and a broken-necked pig had\nbeen hauled out of the wreckage, he asked in all honesty:\n\n\"What car? What pig? Quit stringing me, can't you? Which of my legs did\nyou say is bust, and which one is just twisted? They both feel as bad\nas each other. How'd I get here, anyhow? What happened me?\"\n\nWhen the vet had worked over Lad for an hour and had patched him up and\nhad declared there was no doubt at all about his getting well, Wolf and\nBruce were brought in to see the invalid. The Mistress thought he might\nbe glad to see them.\n\nHe was not.\n\nIndeed, after one scornful look in their direction, Laddie turned away\nfrom the visitors, in cold disgust. Also, he was less demonstrative\nwith the Mistress, than usual. Anyone could see his feelings were\ndeeply hurt. And anyone who knew Lad could tell why.\n\nHe had borne the brunt of the fight. And, at the last, these lesser\ndogs had won the victory without his aid. Still worse, his beloved\nMistress,--for whom he had so blithely staked his aged life,--the\nMistress had held him back by force from joining in the delirious last\nphases of the battle. She had made him stand tamely by, while others\nfinished the grand work he had begun.\n\nIt was not fair. And Laddie let everyone in sight know it was not fair;\nand that he had no intention of being petted into a good humor.\n\nStill, when, by and by, the Mistress sat down on the floor beside him\nand told him what a darling and wonderful and heroic dog he was and how\nproud she felt of his courage, and when her dear hand rumpled the soft\nhair behind his ears,--well, somehow Lad found himself laying his head\nin her lap; and making croony low sounds at her and pretending to bite\nher little white hand.\n\nIt was always hard to stay offended at the Mistress.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.  The Guard\n\nLad was old--very, very old. He had passed his sixteenth birthday. For\na collie, sixteen is as old as is ninety-five for a human.\n\nThe great dog's life had been as beautiful as himself. And now, in the\nlate twilight of his years, Time's hand rested on him as lovingly as\ndid the Mistress's. He had few of the distressing features of age.\n\nTrue; his hearing was duller than of yore. The magnificent body's lines\nwere blurred with flesh. The classic muzzle was snow white; as were the\nlashes and eyebrows. And the once mighty muscles were stiff and\nunwieldy. Increasing feebleness crept over him, making exercise a\nburden and any sudden motion a pain. The once trumpeting bark was a\nhollow echo of itself.\n\nBut the deep-set dark eyes, with a soul looking out of them, were as\nclear as ever. The uncannily wise brain had lost not an atom of its\npower. The glorious mahogany-and-snow coat was still abundant. The\nfearlessly gay spirit and loyal heart were undimmed by age.\n\nLaddie resented angrily his new limitations. From time to time he would\nforget them; and would set off at a run in the wake of Bruce and Wolf,\nwhen the sound of a stranger's approach made them gallop up the\ndriveway to investigate. But always; after the first few stiff bounds,\nhe would come to a panting halt and turn back wearily to his resting\nplace in the veranda's coolest corner; as indignant over his own\nweakness, as he would have been at fetters which impeded his limbs.\n\nHe was more and more sensitive about this awkward feebleness of his.\nAnd he sought to mask it; in ways that seemed infinitely pathetic to\nthe two humans who loved him. For instance, one of his favorite romps\nin bygone days had been to throw himself down in front of the Mistress\nand pretend to bite her little feet; growling terrifically as he did\nit. Twice of late, as he had been walking at her side, his footing had\nslipped or he had lost his balance, and had tumbled headlong Instantly,\nboth times, he had begun to growl and had bitten in mock fury at the\nMistress's foot. By this pitiful ruse he strove to make her believe\nthat his fall had been purposeful and a part of the olden game.\n\nBut worst of all he missed the long walks on which, from puppyhood, he\nhad always accompanied the Mistress and the Master. Unknown to the old\ndog, these walks had been shortened, mercifully, and slowed down, to\naccommodate themselves to Lad's waning strength: But the time came when\neven a half-mile, at snail-pace, over a smooth road, was too much for\nhis wind and endurance.\n\nNowadays, when they were going for a walk, Lad was first lured into the\nhouse and left there. The ruse did not fool him, any more than it would\nhave deceived a grown man. And his feelings were cruelly hurt at every\ninstance of this seeming defection on the part of his two worshiped\nhuman chums.\n\n\"He still enjoys life,\" mused the Master, one day in late summer, as he\nand the Mistress sat on the veranda, with Lad asleep at their feet.\n\"And he can still get about a bit. His appetite is good, and he drowses\nhappily for a good deal of the day; and the car-rides are still as much\nfun for him as ever they were. But when the time comes--and he's\nbreaking fast, these past few months--when the time comes that life is\na misery to him--\"\n\n\"I know,\" interposed the Mistress, her voice not quite steady. \"I know.\nDo you suppose I haven't been thinking about it, on the hot nights when\nI couldn't sleep? But, when the time comes--when it\ncomes--you'll--you'll do it, yourself, won't you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" promised the Master, miserably. \"No one else shall. I'd rather\ncut off one of my own hands, though. I'VE been doing a bit of thinking,\ntoo--at night. It's nobody's job but mine. Laddie would rather have it\nthat way, I know. And, by a bullet. He's a gallant old soldier. And\nthat is the way for him to go. Now, for the Lord's sake, let's talk\nabout something else! A man or woman is a fool to care that way about\nany mere dog. I--\"\n\n\"But Lad isn't a 'mere' dog,\" contradicted the Mistress, stooping to\npet the collie's classic head as it lay across her foot. \"He's--he's\nLaddie.\"\n\nThe sound of his name pierced the sleep mists and brought the dog to\nwakefulness. He raised his head inquiringly toward the Mistress, and\nhis plumed tail began to thump the floor. The Mistress patted him\nagain; and spoke a word or two. Lad prepared to drowse once more. Then,\nto his dulled ears came the padding of little bare feet on the grass.\nAnd he glanced up again, this time in eager interest.\n\nAcross the lawn from the orchard came trotting a child; carrying a\nbasket of peaches toward the kitchen. The youngster wore but a single\ngarment, a shapeless calico dress that fell scarcely to her knees. She\nwas Sonya, the seven-year-old daughter of one of the Place's extra\nworkmen, a Slav named Ruloff who lived in the mile-distant village,\nacross the lake.\n\nRuloff, following the custom of his peasant ancestors, put his whole\nfamily to work, from the time its members were old enough to toddle.\nAnd he urged them against the vice of laziness by means of an\never-ready fist, or a still readier toe or a harness strap--whichever\nof the trio of energy producers chanced to be handiest. In coming over\nto the Place, for a month's labor, during the harvest season, he\nbrought along every day his youngest and most fragile offspring, Sonya.\nUnder her father's directions and under his more drastic modes of\nencouragement, the little girl was of much help to him in his doily\ntoil.\n\nTwice, the Master had caught him punishing her for undue slowness in\ncarrying out some duty too heavy for her frail strength. On both times\nhe had stopped the brutal treatment. On the second, he had told Ruloff\nhe would not only discharge him, but assist his departure from the\nPlace with a taste of boot-toe medicine, if ever the Slav should lay a\nhand on the child again during his period of employment there. The\nPlace's English superintendent had promised like treatment to the man,\nshould he catch him ill treating Sonya.\n\nWherefore, Ruloff had perforce curbed his parental urgings toward\nviolence;--at least during the hours when he and the child were on the\nPlace.\n\nSonya was an engaging little thing; and the Mistress had made a pet of\nher. So had the Master. But the youngster's warmest friend was old\nSunnybank Lad.\n\nFrom the first day of Sonya's advent in his life, Lad had constituted\nhimself her adorer and constant companion.\n\nAlways his big heart had gone out to children; as to everything weak\nand defenseless. Not always had his treatment at the hands of children\nencouraged this feeling of loving chivalry and devotion. But Sonya was\nan exception. Whenever she could steal a minute of time, away from her\nfather's glum eyes and nagging voice and ready fist, she would seek out\nLad.\n\nShe was as gentle with the grand old dog as other children had been\nrough. She loved to cuddle down close beside him, her arms around his\nshaggy neck; and croon queer little high-voiced songs to him; her thin\ncheek against his head. She used to save out fragments from her own\nsparse lunch to give to him. She was inordinately proud to walk at his\nside during Lad's rare rambles around the Place. Child and dog made a\npretty picture of utter chumship.\n\nTo nobody save the Mistress and the Master had Laddie ever given his\nheart so completely as to this baby.\n\nHurried though she was, today, Sonya set down her basket of peaches\nand, with a shy glance of appeal at the two humans, reached across the\nveranda edge to stroke Lad's head and to accept in delight his\nproffered paw. Then, guiltily, she caught up her basket and sped on to\nthe kitchen.\n\nLad, slowly and with difficulty, got to his feet and followed her. A\nminute later the Mistress watched them making their way to the orchard,\nside by side; the child slackening her eager steps in order to keep\npace with the aged dog.\n\n\"I wish we could arrange to take her away from that brute of a father\nof hers, and keep her here,\" said the Mistress. \"It's horrible to think\nof such a helpless wisp of a baby being beaten and made to work, day\nand night. And then she and Laddie love each other so. They--\"\n\n\"What can we do?\" asked the Master, hopelessly. \"I've spoken to the\nvillage authorities about it. But it seems the law can't interfere;\nunless brutal cruelty can be proved or unless the parents are unfit to\nbring up the child.\"\n\n\"Brutal cruelty?\" echoed the Mistress. \"What could be more brutal than\nthe way he beats her? Why, last week there was a bruise on her arm as\nbig--\"\n\n\"What can we prove? He has a legal right to punish her. If we got them\nup in court, he'd frighten her into swearing she hurt her arm on a\nfence picket and that he never harms her. No, there's no sort of cure\nfor the rotten state of affairs.\"\n\nBut the Master was mistaken. There was a very good cure indeed for it.\nAnd that cure was being applied at the moment he denied its existence.\n\nSonya had disappeared from view over the crest of the lawn: Down into\nthe orchard she went, Lad at her side; to where Ruloff was waiting for\nher to lug another full basket back to the house.\n\n\"Move!\" he ordered, as she drew near. \"Don't crawl! Move, or I'll make\nyou move.\"\n\nThis threat he voiced very bravely indeed. He was well out of sight of\nthe house. The superintendent and the two other men were working on the\nfar side of the hill. It seemed an eminently safe time to exercise his\nparental authority. And, hand uplifted, he took a threatening step\ntoward the little girl.\n\nSonya cowered back in mortal dread. There was no mistaking the import\nof Ruloff's tone or gesture. Lad read it as clearly as did the child.\nAs Sonya shrank away from the menace, a furry shoulder was pressed\nreassuringly against her side. Lad's cold muzzle was thrust for the\nmerest instant into her trembling hand.\n\nThen, as Ruloff advanced, Lad took one majestic step forward; his great\nbody shielding the girl; his dark eyes sternly on the man's; his lips\ndrawing back from his blunted yellow fangs. Deep in his throat a growl\nwas born.\n\nRuloff checked himself; looking doubtfully at the shaggy brute. And at\nthe same moment the superintendent appeared over the ridge of the hill,\non his way to the orchard. The Slav picked up a filled basket and\nshoved it at Sonya.\n\n\"Jump!\" he ordered. \"Keep moving. Be back here in one minute!\"\n\nWith a sigh of enormous relief and a pat of furtive gratitude to Lad,\nthe child set forth on her errand. Yet, even at risk of a sharper\nrebuke, she accommodated her pace to Lad's stately slow steps.\n\nHitherto she had loved the dog for no special reason except that her\nheart somehow went out to him. But now she had a practical cause for\nher devotion. Lad had stood between her and a fist blow. He had risked,\nshe knew not what, to defy her all-terrible father and to protect her\nfrom punishment.\n\nAs soon as she was out of Ruloff's sight, she set down her basket, and\nflung both puny arms about the dog's neck in an agony of gratitude.\n\nHer squeeze almost strangled the weak old collie. But there was love in\nit. And because of that, he reveled in the hurt.\n\n\"You won't let him thump me!\" she whispered in the dog's ear. \"You\nwon't let him. I'd never be afraid of him, if you were there. Oh,\nLaddie, you're so darling!\"\n\nLad, highly pleased, licked her wizened little face and, sitting down,\ninsisted on shaking hands with her. He realized he had done something\nquite wonderful and had made this little chum of his proud of him.\nWherefore, he was proud of himself; and felt young and gay\nagain;--until his next strenuous effort to walk fast.\n\nAll night, in her sleep, in the stiflingly hot loft of her father's\nhovel, which served her and the five other Ruloff children as a\ndormitory, Sonya was faintly aware of that bright memory. Her first\nwaking thought was of the shaggy shoulder pressed so protectingly\nagainst her side; and of the reassuring thrust of Lad's muzzle into her\ncupped palm. It all seemed as vividly real as though she could still\nfeel the friendly contact.\n\nOn the next morning, Ruloff alone of all the village's population went\nto work. For it was Labor Day.\n\nRuloff did not believe in holidays,--either for himself or for his\nfamily. And while wages were so high he was not minded to throw away a\nfull day's earnings, just for the sake of honoring a holiday ordained\nin a country for which he felt no fondness or other interest. So, with\nSonya tagging after him, he made his way to the Place, as usual.\n\nNow, on Labor Day, of that year, was held the annual outdoor dog-show\nat Hawthorne. Lad, of course, was far too old to be taken to a show.\nAnd this was one of the compensations of old age. For Laddie detested\ndog shows. But, abnormally sensitive by nature, this sensitiveness had\ngrown upon him with failing strength and added years. Thus, when he saw\nBruce and Bob and Jean bathed and groomed and made ready for the show,\nhe was sad at heart. For here was one more thing in which he no longer\nhad any share.\n\nAnd so he lay down in his cave, under the piano, his head between his\nabsurdly small white forepaws; and hearkened sadly to the preparations\nfor departure.\n\nBruce (\"Sunnybank Goldsmith\") was perhaps the most beautiful collie of\nhis generation. Groomed for a show, he made most other dogs look\nplebeian and shabby. That day, one may say in passing, he was destined\nto go through the collie classes, to Winners, with a rush; and then to\nwin the award and cup for \"Best Dog Of Any Breed In The Show.\"\n\nBruce's son and daughter--Bobby and Jean were to win in their\nrespective collie classes as Best Puppy and Best Novice. It was to be a\nday of triumph for the Sunnybank Kennels. Yet, somehow, it was to be a\nday to which the Mistress and the Master never enjoyed looking back.\n\nInto the car the three dogs were put. The Mistress and the Master and\nthe Place's superintended got aboard, and the trip to Hawthorne began.\n\nLaddie had come out from his cave to see the show-goers off. The\nMistress, looking back, had a last glimpse of him, standing in the\nfront doorway; staring wistfully after the car. She waved her hand to\nhim in farewell. Lad wagged his plumed tail, once, in reply, to the\nsalute. Then, heavily, he turned back again into the house.\n\n\"Dear old Laddie!\" sighed the Mistress. \"He used to hate to go to\nshows. And now he hates being left behind. It seems so cruel to leave\nhim. And yet--\"\n\n\"Oh the maids will take good care of him!\" consoled the Master. \"They\nspoil him, whenever they get a chance. And we'll be back before five\no'clock. We can't be forever looking out for his crotchety feelings.\"\n\n\"We won't be 'forever' doing that,\" prophesied the Mistress, unhappily.\n\nLeft alone the old dog paced slowly back to his cave. The day was hot.\nHis massive coat was a burden. Life was growing more of a problem than\nof old it had been. Also, from time to time, lately, his heart did\nqueer things that annoyed Lad. At some sudden motion or undue exertion\nit had a new way of throbbing and of hammering against his ribs so\nviolently as to make him pant.\n\nLad did not understand this. And, as with most things he did not\nunderstand, it vexed him. This morning, for example,--the heat of the\nday and the fatigue of his ramble down through the rose garden to the\nlake and back, had set it to thumping painfully. He was glad to lie at\npeace in his beloved cave, in the cool music-room; and sleep away the\nhours until his deities should return from that miserable dog-show. He\nslept.\n\nAnd so an hour wore on; and then another and another.\n\nAt the show, the Mistress developed one of her sick headaches. She said\nnothing of it. But the Master saw the black shadows grow, under her\neyes; and the color go out of her face; and he noted the little\npain-lines around her mouth. So, as soon as the collie judging was\nover, he made her get into the car; and he drove her home, meaning to\nreturn to Hawthorne in time for the afternoon judging of specials and\nof variety classes.\n\nMeanwhile, as the morning passed, Lad was roused from his fitful\nold-age slumber by the sound of crying. Into his dreams seeped the\ndistressing sound. He woke; listened; got up painfully and started\ntoward the front door.\n\nHalfway to the door, his brain cleared sufficiently for him to\nrecognize the voice that had awakened him. And his leisurely walk\nmerged into a run.\n\nRuloff and Sonya had been working all morning in the peach orchard. To\nthe child's chagrin, Lad was nowhere in sight. Every time she passed\nthe house she loitered as long as she dared, in hope of getting a\nglimpse of him.\n\n\"I wonder where Laddie is,\" she ventured, once, as her father was\nfilling a basket for her to carry.\n\n\"The dogs have gone to a silly show,\" grunted Ruloff, piling the\nbasket. \"The superintendent told me, yesterday. To waste a whole day\nwith dogs! Pouf! No wonder the world is poor! Here, the basket is full.\nJump!\"\n\nSonya picked up the heavy load--twice as big as usual were the baskets\ngiven her to carry, now that the interfering Master and the\nsuperintendent were not here to forbid--and started laboriously for the\nhouse.\n\nHer back ached with weariness. Yet, in the absence of her protectors,\nshe dared not complain or even to allow herself the luxury of walking\nslowly. So, up the hill, she toiled; at top speed. Ruloff had finished\nfilling another basket, and he prepared to follow her. This completed\nthe morning's work. His lunch-pail awaited him at the barn. With nobody\nto keep tabs on him, he resolved to steal an extra hour of time, in\nhonor of Labor Day--at his employer's expense.\n\nSonya pattered up the rise and around to the corner of the house.\nThere, feeling her father's eye on her, as he followed; she tried to\nhasten her staggering steps. As a result, she stumbled against the\nconcrete walk. Her bare feet went from under her.\n\nDown she fell, asprawl; the peaches flying in fifty directions. She had\ncut her knee, painfully, against the concrete edge. This, and the\nknowledge that Ruloff would most assuredly punish her clumsiness, made\nher break out in shrill weeping.\n\nAmong the cascaded peaches she lay, crying her eyes out. Up the hill\ntoward her scrambled Ruloff; basket on shoulder; yelling abuse better\nfitted for the ears of a balky mule than for those of a hurt child.\n\n\"Get up!\" he bawled. \"Get up, you worthless little cow! If you've\nspoiled any of those peaches or broke my basket, I'll cut the flesh off\nyour bones.\"\n\nSonya redoubled her wailing. For, she recognized a bumpy substance\nbeneath her as the crushed basket. And these baskets belonged to\nRuloff; not to the Place.\n\nFor the accidental breaking of far less worthwhile things, at home, she\nand her brothers and sisters had often been thrashed most unmercifully:\nHer lamentations soared to high heaven. And her father's running feet\nsounded like the tramp of Doom.\n\nThere is perhaps no other terror so awful as that of an ill treated\nchild at the approach of punishment. A man or woman, menaced by danger\nfrom law or from private foe, can either fight it out or run away from\nit. But there is no hiding place for a child from a brute parent. The\npunishment is as inevitable and as fearsome as from the hand of God.\n\nNo; there is no other terror so awful. And, one likes to think, there\nis no other punishment in the next world so severe as that meted out to\nthe torturers of little children. For this hope's basis there is the\nsolemn warning voiced by the All-pitying Friend of children;--a threat\nwhich, apparently, was unfamiliar to Ruloff.\n\nDown upon the weepingly prostrate Sonya bore the man. As he came toward\nher, he ripped off the leathern belt he wore. And he brandished it by\nthe hole-punch end; the brass buckle singing ominously about his head.\nThen, out from the house and across the wide veranda flashed a giant\ntawny shape.\n\nWith the fierce speed of his youngest days, Lad cleared the porch and\nreached the crying child. In the same instant he beheld the advancing\nRuloff; and the wise old brain read the situation at a glance.\n\nStopping only to lick the tear-streaked little face, Lad bounded in\nfront of Sonya and faced the father. The collie's feeble old body was\ntense; his eyes blazed with indignant fury. His hackles bristled. The\nyellowed and useless teeth glinted from beneath back-writhed lips. For\nall his age, Lad was a terrible and terrifying figure as he stood guard\nover the helpless waif.\n\nRuloff hesitated an instant, taken aback by the apparition. Sonya\nceased shrieking. Lad was here to protect her. Over her frightened soul\ncame that former queer sense of safety. She got up, tremblingly, and\npressed close to the furry giant who had come to her rescue. She glared\ndefiantly up at Ruloff.\n\nPerhaps it was this glare; perhaps it was the knowledge that Lad was\nvery old and the sight of his worn-down teeth; perhaps it was the need\nof maintaining his hold of fear over the rebellious child. At all\nevents, Ruloff swung aloft the belt once more and strode toward the\ntwo; balancing himself for a kick at the thundrously growling dog.\n\nThe kick did not land. For, even as Sonya cried out in new terror, Lad\nlaunched himself at the Slav.\n\nAll unprepared for the clash, and being an utter coward at heart--if he\nhad a heart--the father reeled back, under the impact. Losing his\nbalance, he tumbled prone to earth.\n\nBy the time his back struck ground, Lad was upon him; ravening\nuselessly at the swarthy throat.\n\nBut, yelling with fright, Ruloff fended him off; and twisted and\nwrithed out of reach; bunching his feet under him and, in a second,\nstaggering up and racing for the shelter of the nearest tree.\n\nUp the low-stretching branches the man swarmed, until he was well out\nof reach. Then, pausing in his climb, he shook his fist down at the\ncollie, who was circling the tree in a vain attempt to find some way of\nclimbing it.\n\nChattering, mouthing, gibbering like a monkey, Ruloff shook an impotent\nfist at the dog that had treed him; and squalled insults at him and at\nthe hysterically delighted child.\n\nSonya rushed up to Lad, flinging her arms around him and trying to kiss\nhim. At her embrace, the collie's tension relaxed. He turned his back\non the jabbering Ruloff, and looked pantingly up into the child's\nexcited face.\n\nThen, whimpering a little under his breath, he licked her cheek; and\nmade shift to wag his plumed tail in reassurance. After which, having\nrouted the enemy and done what he could to comfort the rescued, Laddie\nmoved heavily over to the veranda.\n\nFor some reason he was finding it hard to breathe. And his heart was\ndoing amazing things against his ribs. He was very tired--very drowsy.\nHe wanted to finish his interrupted nap. But it was a long way into the\nhouse. And a spot on the veranda, under the wide hammock, promised\ncoolness. Thither he went; walking more and more slowly.\n\nAt the hammock, he looked back: Ruloff was shinnying down from the\ntree; on the far side. All the fight, all the angry zest for torturing,\nseemed to have gone out of the man. Without so much as glancing toward\nSonya or the dog, he made his way, in a wide detour, toward the barn\nand lunch.\n\nSonya ran up on the veranda after Lad. As he laid himself heavily down,\nunder the hammock, she sat on the floor beside him; taking his head in\nher lap, stroking its silken fur and beginning to sing to him in that\nhigh-pitched crooning little voice of hers.\n\nLaddie loved this. And he loved the soft caress of her hand. It soothed\nhim to sleep.\n\nIt was good to sleep. He had just undergone more vehement exertion and\nexcitement than had been his for many a long month. And he had earned\nhis rest. It was sweet to doze like this--petted and sung to.\n\nIt was not well to exercise body and emotions as he had just done. Lad\nrealized that, now;--now that it was all over and he could rest. Rest!\nYes, it was good to rest,--to be smoothed and crooned at. It was thus\nthe Mistress had stroked and crooned to him, so many thousand times.\nAnd always Lad had loved it.\n\nIt was well to be at home and to be sinking so pleasantly to sleep;\nhere at the Place he had guarded since before he could remember--the\nPlace where he and the Mistress and the Master had had such splendid\ntimes; where he and his long-dead mate, Lady, had romped; where he had\nplayed with and trained his fiery little son, Wolf; and where every\ninch of the dear land was alive with wonderful memories to him.\n\nHe had had a full, happy, rich life. And now, in its twilight, rest was\nas grateful as action once had been.\n\nThe morning air was warm and it was heavy with flower and field,\nscents; and with the breath of the forests where so often Lad had led\nthe tearing run of the collie pack and in whose snowy depths he once\nhad fought for his life against Wolf and the huge crossbreed, Rex. That\nwas ever so long ago.\n\nThe Mistress and the Master were coming home. Lad knew that. He could\nnot have told how he knew it. In earlier years, he had known their car\nwas bringing them home to him, while it was still a mile or more\ndistant from the Place;--had known and had cantered forth to meet it.\n\nHe was too tired, just now, to do that. At least, until he had slept\nfor a moment or two. Always, until now, the Mistress and the Master had\nbeen first, with Lad. Now, for some odd reason, sleep was first.\n\nAnd he slept;--deeply, wearily.\n\nPresently, as he slept, he sighed and then quivered a little. After\nthat, he lay still. The great heart, very quietly, had stopped beating.\n\nInto the driveway, from the main road, a furlong above, rolled the\nhomecoming car. At sight of it, Sonya started up. She was not certain\nhow the car's occupants would take her preempting of the veranda in\ntheir absence. Letting Lad's head gently down to the floor, she slipped\naway.\n\nTo the barn she went, ignorant that her father had not returned to the\norchard. She wanted to get herself into a more courageous frame of mind\nbefore meeting Ruloff. By experience she judged he would make her pay,\nand pay dear, for the  fright the collie had given him.\n\nInto the barn she ran, shutting fast its side door behind her. Then,\nmidway across the dusky hay-strewn space, she came to a gasping stop.\nRuloff had risen from a box on the corner, had set down his lunch pail,\nmoved between her and the door and yanked off his brass-buckled belt.\n\nThe child was trapped. Here there was no earthly chance for escape.\nHere, too, thanks to the closed door, Laddie could not come to her aid.\nIn palsied dread, she stood shaking and sobbing; as the man walked\nsilently toward her.\n\nRuloff's flat face widened in a grin of anticipation. He had a big\nscore to pay. And he was there to pay it. The fear of the dog was still\nupon him; and the shame that this child, the cause of all his\nhumiliation, should have seen him run yelling up a tree. It would take\na mighty good flogging to square that.\n\nSonya cried out, in mortal terror, at his first step. Then--probably\nonly in her hysterical imagination, though afterward she vowed it had\nactually happened--came rescue.\n\nDistinctly, against her quivering side, she felt the pressure of a warm\nfurry bulk. Into her paralyzed hand a reassuring cold muzzle was\nthrust. And, over her, came a sense of wonderful safety from all harm.\nFacing her father with a high-pitched loud laugh of genuine courage,\nshe shrilled:\n\n\"You don't dare touch me! You don't dare lay one finger on me!\"\n\nAnd she meant it. Her look and every inflection of the defiant high\nvoice proved she meant it; proved it to the dumfounded Ruloff, in a way\nthat sent funny little shivers down his spine.\n\nThe man came to a shambling halt; aghast at the transfigured little\nwisp of humanity who confronted him in such gay fearlessness.\n\n\"Why don't I dare?\" he blustered, lifting the brass-buckled weapon\nagain.\n\n\"You don't dare to!\" she laughed, wildly. \"You don't dare, because you\nknow he'll kill you, This time he won't just knock you down. He'll KILL\nyou! He'll never let you hit me again. I know it. He's HERE! You don't\ndare touch me! You won't ever dare touch me! He--\"\n\nShe choked, in her shout of weird exultation. The man, ridden by his\nracial superstition, stared open-mouthed at the tiny demon who\nscreeched defiance at him.\n\nAnd, there, in the dim shadows of the barn, his overwrought fancy\nseemed to make out a grim formless Thing, close at the child's side;\ncrouching in silent menace.\n\nThe heat of the day--the shock of seeing Lad appear from nowhere and\nstand thus, by the veranda, a few minutes earlier--these and the\nonce-timid Sonya's confident belief in Lad's presence,--all wrought on\nthe stupid, easily-thrilled mind of the Slav.\n\n\"The werewolf!\" he babbled; throwing down the belt, and bolting out\ninto the friendly sunlight.\n\n\"The werewolf! I--I saw it! I--at least--God of Russia, what DID I see?\nWhat did SHE see?\"\n\nOver a magnificent lifeless body on the veranda bent the two who had\nloved Lad best and whom he had served so worshipfully for sixteen\nyears. The Mistress's face was wet with tears she did not try to check.\nIn the Master's throat was a lump that made speech painful. For the\ntenth time he leaned down and laid his fingers above the still heart of\nthe dog; seeking vainly for sign of fluttering.\n\n\"No use!\" he said, thickly, harking back by instinct to a\nhalf-remembered phrase. \"The engine has broken down.\"\n\n\"No,\" quoted the sobbing Mistress, wiser than he. \"'The engineer has\nleft it.'\"\n\n\n\nTHE END","title":"Further Adventures of Lad","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":72725}