CHAPTER XIV
THE COMING OF TATTERS
After the unfortunate episode that resulted in the accident to Rags,it was as though a cloud rested over Camp Britches. There was no heartfor merrymaking. And when at last the sad news came of Rags's death,it seemed as though all the joy had gone out of life. If you havenever been a boy, you do not know how quickly a mood of hilariousjollity can be followed by one of deep depression. The plan had beento continue in camp for four or five days more, and some of the boyshad been begging for a longer extension of the time, but now no oneseriously objected when Alfred and Horace proposed breaking camp andgoing home. Every boy in camp had loved Rags next to his own dog, andeven Moses went about in an atmosphere of melancholy.
Sadly they hauled down Jimmie's humorous ensign and pulled up the tentpegs. It seemed like a different crowd of boys from that which had sojoyously arrived in the wagons but two short weeks before.
On a sunny hillside half a mile south of the brickyard there grew, atthe edge of the woods, a beautiful little grove of dogwoods, whichin May was always a fairyland of snowy blossoms that almost seemed tofloat in the air. In this peaceful spot it was decided to bury thepoor, broken body of Rags. I doubt if there has ever been a funeral inBoytown that was attended by more sincere mourners. Harry Barton andMonty Hubbard spent an afternoon, immediately after their return fromcamp, making a simple little casket of white wood which they stained acherry color. It did not seem fitting that so gay a little dog as Ragsshould be laid to rest in a black one. They lined it with softflannel, and Jimmie himself, trying hard not to cry, placed the stifflittle body inside, still wearing the old, worn collar, and naileddown the top. Theron Hammond and Ernest Whipple were appointed to actas bearers.
The Camp Britches boys were not the only ones who joined in thatsorrowful little procession to the dogwood grove. Jimmie's mother wasthere, quietly weeping, for she had loved Rags like another child, andwith her were two or three of her neighbors. Mr. Fellowes closed uphis store and silently joined them, and there was a little knot ofgirls with mournful faces, who had also known Rags and loved him. Mr.and Mrs. Hartshorn came over from Willowdale and, leaving their car inthe town, followed the little casket on foot with the rest.
There was no clergyman present to read Scripture or to pray, but Ithink the mourners were none the less devout. The whole ceremony, infact, was carried through in almost utter silence. It had been thoughtbest not to bring dogs who might not behave themselves, but Mike andHamlet were there, for they could be depended upon, and it seemedfitting that Rags's canine friends as well as his human friends shouldbe represented.
A grave was dug in the sand and the little casket was lowered into it.Beside it Jimmie placed the battered tin dish that Rags had used and amuch-chewed ladder rung that had been his favorite plaything. Thegirls threw in some flowers and then the earth was shoveled in againand the little company returned home.
I hope the loyal soul of Rags was where it could look down and seethat his old friends cared and had come to do him honor. At least hislife had been a happy one and free from any guile. And he was not soonforgotten. Not long afterward there appeared at the head of the littlemound beneath the dogwoods a simple headstone, the gift of Mrs.Hartshorn, and on it were inscribed these words:
HERE LIES RAGS The Best-Loved Dog in Boytown.
For some little time the cloud remained over Boytown and there waslittle disposition to take any active part in canine affairs. Butyouthful spirits cannot long remain depressed, and as the autumn daysapproached, one of the boys of Boytown, at least, discovered a newinterest in connection with dog ownership. That was Ernest Whipple.
For some time Sam Bumpus had been talking, somewhat vaguely, of thepossibility of testing out the powers of Romulus in the field trials,and Mr. Hartshorn himself had occasionally mentioned this. Ernestsubscribed to a popular kennel paper, and early in September he beganreading about the All-American trials to be held at Denbigh, NorthDakota, and other similar events. The names of famous dogs werementioned, both pointers and setters, and there was much speculationin the paper as to the prospects of winning. The thing fascinatedErnest, but it was all a bit unintelligible to him. He wanted to learnmore about this sport that seemed to be followed by such a large andenthusiastic number of people, and to find out the way of gettingRomulus into it. So one day he and Jack took their dogs and walked toWillowdale, for the express purpose of getting the desiredinformation.
Tom Poultice was the first person they encountered, and he confessedhimself to be rather ignorant as to the conduct of American fieldtrials.
"I've seen many of them in Hengland," said he, "and a great game itis. Get a bunch of fine bird dogs out in the fields in the fineweather, with a big crowd following them, and maybe a bit of wageringgoing on be'ind the judges' backs, and the dogs all eager to be afterthe birds, and every one of them in the pink, and you've got a finesport, men. The dogs seem to know, too, and they go in for all's init. But just 'ow they run the trials over 'ere, I can't say. You'dbetter ask Mr. 'Artshorn. 'E used to own bird dogs once, and I'llwarrant 'e's been all through it."
They found Mr. Hartshorn in his den, but he very gladly laid aside thework he was doing and asked good-naturedly what the trouble was now.
"We've come to ask you to tell us about field trials," said Ernest.
"Well, that's a rather big contract," laughed Mr. Hartshorn. "Isuppose I could talk about field trials all night. I've seen somethrilling contests in my time. Just what is it you would like toknow?"
"We want to know what a field trial is, how it is run, and what thedogs do," said Ernest.
"Well," said Mr. Hartshorn, "a field trial is more than a mere race.It's a real sport in which all the powers of a bird dog are broughtinto play. It's a competition on actual game--prairie chickens orquail, usually. The dogs are sent out to find the game and point,with the judges and handlers and the gallery, as the spectators arecalled, following. In the big trials there are three or more separateevents. One is called the Derby stake, for dogs under two years ofage. Then there is the All-Age stake, which is the biggest one.Finally there is the Championship stake, for dogs specially qualified,and the winning of that brings with it the highest honors in thebird-dog world.
"The order of running is decided by lot, and the dogs are put down inpairs. They start off after the birds and work for a stated length oftime, after which the judges decide which of the two dogs won, thedecision being based on speed, form, steadiness, bird-work, andeverything else that goes to make up the bird dog's special power.Then these winners are tried together until the best and the secondbest, called the runner-up, are chosen in each of the stakes. It takesa good dog to win one of these stakes, for he has to run more thanonce and his work must be consistent. Purses are offered by the clubsas prizes, amounting to several hundred dollars at the big events.
"Occasionally there are other stakes, such as novice stakes and eventsin which dogs are handled only by their owners. In the big events thegreat dogs are usually handled by professionals, who take the dogsright down the circuit and win all the prizes they can. The trialsbegin in September in Manitoba and North Dakota, on prairie chicken,and are followed by big and small events in the Middle Western states,Pennsylvania, and finally in the South. The biggest of all is held inDecember or January at Grand Junction, Tennessee, every year. Here theAll-America Field Trial Club holds its classic event, in which thewinner of the Championship stake is pronounced the amateur champion ofthe United States for one year, winning also a large purse and ahandsome silver trophy."
"Have you ever seen one of those trials?" asked Jack.
"Several times," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I have seen some of the mostfamous pointers and setters that ever lived run at Grand Junction andwin their deathless laurels."
"I suppose Romulus wouldn't stand a chance there," said Ernest, a bitwistfully.
"Perhaps not, at first," said Mr. Hartshorn, "though you never cantell. It's a pretty expensive matter, getting a
dog ready and puttinghim through one of those trials, even though the prizes are large. Butthere are smaller ones, and it is possible to try a dog out nearerhome the first time, with less risk and expense. During the springthere are many trials held by local clubs throughout the East."
"Couldn't Romulus be entered in one of those?" asked Ernest.
"I don't know why not," said Mr. Hartshorn. "I'll look it up and letyou know. Meanwhile, tell Sam Bumpus what you're up to and have himkeep Romulus in shape this winter."
"I suppose Remus couldn't run," said Jack.
"I'm afraid not, my boy," said Mr. Hartshorn, kindly. "Nose is one ofthe prime requisites, and Remus hasn't the nose, as you know."
"I don't care," said the loyal Jack. "I'd rather win at a bench show,anyway."
When Ernest told Sam Bumpus about the plan, that worthy was muchinterested. He made a special trip all the way to Willowdale toconsult Mr. Hartshorn, and between them they worked out a plan. Samwas enthusiastic now as to the superior abilities of Romulus as a birddog, and he presently took him in hand for special training to improvehis form and the other qualities that count in the trials. Off and onall winter Sam took the dog out, patiently and persistently drillinghim. Sometimes Ernest went along and he was amazed by the intelligenceand speed which his good dog displayed. When spring came again Samannounced that there was nothing more that he could do to improve theform and capacity of Romulus.
"I'll back him against any bird dog in the state of Connecticut," saidhe, proudly.
But before I tell how it fared with Romulus at the trials, I have oneepisode to relate, the only happening of that winter which needs to berecorded. For the rest, the weeks passed without any momentous event,with the boys in whom we are interested growing ever a little olderand wiser. And this particular thing was not of great importance,perhaps. It did not greatly affect the boy-and-dog life of Boytown.But it did affect Jimmie Rogers, and Jimmie, since the death of Rags,had been the one lonely, pathetic figure in the group. It would be ashame not to tell of the thing that happened to him.
One day in early December Dick Wheaton appeared on Main Street,dragging a forlorn-looking little dog by a string. He was asmooth-coated dog of the terrier type, a rich chocolate brown incolor, with an active body and a good face and head, but anybody couldsee he was only a mongrel. No one knew where he had come from and Dickdid not take the trouble to tell where he had found him.
In his present state the dog showed none of the alert, eager characterof the well-born terrier. He held his tail between his legs and hecringed abjectly. This seemed to amuse Dick Wheaton. He made littlerushes at the dog and laughed to see the terror in his eyes. Hefound entertainment in tapping the dog's toes with his foot andwatching him pull back on the string. Wearying of this, he beganmaltreating the helpless animal more cruelly.
Mr. Fellowes saw all this from the window of his store, and his bloodboiled within him. Unable to stand it any longer, he started out ofhis shop to protest, when he saw Jimmie Rogers come running along.
There could be no doubt as to Jimmie's purpose. His lips were tightset and his eyes were blazing. He came close up to Dick and seized hisarm.
"Quit that!" cried Jimmie between his clenched teeth.
Dick was taller and heavier than Jimmie and he was not unaccustomed tobullying boys of Jimmie's size. He shook off the hand and grinnedinsolently.
"What's the matter with you, Mr. Humane Society?" he asked.
"I'll show you, if you don't leave that dog alone," said Jimmie.
For answer, Dick gave the string a jerk. It was tied tightly aroundthe dog's neck, and it hurt.
"Whose dog is this, I'd like to know," said Dick in a taunting tone.
Jimmie wasted no more breath in words. He snatched the string out ofDick's hand and faced him defiantly. Dick, now angry in his turn, madea lunge for the string. Mr. Fellowes couldn't see who struck thefirst blow, but in a moment the two boys were fighting desperately,Jimmie making up in fire and determination for what he lacked in sizeand strength.
Mr. Fellowes felt that he was called upon to interfere. It wouldhardly do to let a fight like this go on right in front of his shop,on the sidewalk of Main Street. Besides, other people were hurrying upand it might end in serious trouble.
Just then Dick managed to break free long enough to give the poor doga vicious and entirely uncalled-for kick, as though he were in thisway scoring an advantage over his opponent. The little terrier rolledover and over on the sidewalk, yelping in pain and terror. Then hefound his footing and dashed blindly into Mr. Fellowes's legs.
The shopkeeper stooped and picked up the frightened little stray andtook him into the store, where he did his best to soothe and comforthim, and it was wonderful how promptly the little chap responded andlicked the kind man's hand. It may have been the first time he hadever tasted the milk of human kindness, but instinctively heunderstood and looked up confidently into this stranger's eyes with anexpression of gratitude.
Meanwhile, a little knot of men and boys had gathered out in front ofthe shop. It so happened that they were persons who would ratherwitness a fight than stop it, or it may have been that there were someof them who hoped that for once Dick Wheaton would get his deserts. Atany rate, it was a real fight, with no quarter, and it would have beena cold-blooded person indeed who could not admire the pluck of JimmieRogers. His nose was bleeding and his breath came in sobbing gasps,but he kept at it with unabated fury. Three times Dick Wheaton threwhim, and three times he jumped to his feet and went for Dick.
The fighting of boys is no more to be encouraged than the fighting ofdogs, but there seem to be times in the affairs of boys as well as ofmen when nothing but fighting will serve. The only way to cure a bullyis to thrash him, and if anyone ever had a justifiable motive forfighting it was Jimmie Rogers.
At length Dick's blows appeared to be growing weaker. Jimmie, unableoften to reach his face, had been pummelling him consistently on thevulnerable spot at the lower end of the breastbone, regardless of thepunishment he himself received, and these tactics were beginning totell on Dick's wind. His lips were parted, his eyes staring, and hisface took on a strange mottled look. He began to strike out weakly andto concern himself chiefly with parrying Jimmie's troublesome blowsand protecting his stomach.
With lowered guard, Dick staggered uncertainly backward, and Jimmie,rushing in, dealt him a smashing blow on the mouth that sent himreeling. Tripping over the door stone of Mr. Fellowes's store, he fellheavily, and lay there, with his arm crooked over his face, awaitinghe knew not what final _coup de grace_ in an attitude of abjectsurrender.
Men rushed in now, but Jimmie was satisfied. He shook off their handsand walked, somewhat unsteadily, into the store, and Mr. Fellowesclosed the door behind him. Someone picked Dick up.
"Well, I guess you've had enough," said this unsympathetic person.
Dick Wheaton slunk off home without replying.
Mr. Fellowes did not refer to the fight. He did not think it proper topraise Jimmie, for he did not believe in boys fighting, but he couldnot resist a feeling of proud satisfaction.
"Want to see the dog?" he asked.
"Yes," said Jimmie in a tremulous voice. He was almost crying withweariness and he was doing his best to wipe the blood off his face andbrush the dust off his clothes.
"Let me help you," said Mr. Fellowes, kindly.
While he was bathing Jimmie's face, the boy felt a pair of little pawsreaching up on his leg, and a cold little nose thrust into his hand.He stooped down and patted the little head. The tail came out frombetween the dog's legs and wagged joyfully. Impulsively Jimmie caughthim up and hugged him close. It seemed a long time to Jimmie Rogerssince he had felt the moist caress of a loving tongue, and the thingwent straight to his lonely heart.
During all the fighting he had steadfastly held back the tears of painor anger, but now, weakened as he was by his exertions and the aftereffects of excitement, he burst into tears, burying his face in thelittle dog's warm, soft coat.<
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"Oh, little dog, little dog, you're going to be mine!" he cried.
Mr. Fellowes said not a word. While caring for the dog during thefight, he had been thinking what a fine thing it would be to keep him,to fill the place so long left vacant by the death of his Bounce. Butnow, as he watched Jimmie, he made the sacrifice. This should beJimmie's dog. The boy had fairly won him. Mr. Fellowes understood howhe felt; he, too, had lost a dog. So he merely stroked the dog's headand said, "What shall you call him?"
"Tatters," said Jimmie, and still carrying the dog tenderly in hisarms, he started out of the shop. At the door he turned back, with theflash in his eye again. "And I'd like to see anybody try to take himaway from me," he said.
"I guess nobody will," said Mr. Fellowes, smiling, and Jimmie bore hisburden proudly home.
It was wonderful what a change a few days of kindness and good feedingwrought in Tatters. He never became the favorite that Rags had been,but he was a good dog, not without excellences and wisdom of his own,and Jimmie loved him. And the change that came over Jimmie was hardlyless marked. With another dog for his own he was himself again, andeveryone rejoiced with him. On Christmas Day Mr. Fellowes saw to itthat the dogs' Santa Claus presented Tatters with a fine new collar.