Chapter 2

He looked long after it, to make sure. Then he rubbed his chin with his pipe in his hand, and remarked aloud, "Run to a standstill, and never harmed. Well, I'm...!" And once again that day he checked himself from using a bad, if sometimes almost pardonable, word.

III

The general company naturally viewed Murphy's performance from many standpoints. Among his contemporaries his reputation went up with a bound, though there was not wanting a leaven of jealous ones even amidst those who crowded most closely round him. Among those a little older than himself, the best-natured commended him outspokenly and in honest generosity of heart. Others, with more mundane outlook, judged his achievement reflected lustre on the kennel, and therefore--this with a sniff and the chuck of the chin--also on themselves. A few more vowed, in true sporting spirit, that they would do their level best to go one better if such a chance as that should come their way. To these last, the puzzle was why, with such results, the whole of those present had not tasted blood; and among themselves they voted the action of the Over-Lord incomprehensible, certainly womanly, very certainly misjudged. If the young dog had gone up therefore in their estimation, the Man had correspondingly gone down.

As for the older generation, some spoke patronisingly, as if they wished to convey that the deed was nothing more than they could easily have achieved, and in fact ended by talking so much that they persuaded themselves, to their own satisfaction, that they were in the habit in their younger days of doing things of the kind not less infrequently than once a week. The moralists wagged their heads as the fountain of all truths, and asserted that such success was a very bad thing for the young. The swaggerers, who held somewhat aloof, but who had never done anything in their lives, put on more side than usual and endeavoured to carry matters off that way, oblivious, as ever, of the laughter round the corner. Lastly, there was that other class, the crabbed and the crusty, who would, had they belonged to Us, have retired behind their papers in the Club windows, but as it was, and being dogs, merely made off out of earshot, with their ruffs up, grumbling to themselves and crabbing all things.

There were some of all classes here as elsewhere. It is indeed surprising how closely the dog family approximates to the human. The same counterparts are to be found in both. We mostly hunt in packs. And if dogs are wont to bark and bite and rend, We, on our part, are often not behind in practising the same strange arts, though not always with the same sportsmanship and generosity.

As for Murphy, he took the whole matter with a skip and a laugh, as if it was all part of the jolly fun of life, and as not in any way reflecting credit on himself. By nature he was modest and shy, and if he did things occasionally that were out of the common, he never seemed to grasp the fact, invariably looking puzzled and impatient at all praise. "Never mind all that; let's come on and look for something else," was what he said, exhibiting in this way, perhaps, one of those traits of character that made him so lovable, and that grew to such fair proportions as he advanced in years. His disposition was happy and generous, and though essentially manly--if such a term, without offence, is applicable to dogs--there was also about him a peculiar gentleness that was exemplified in all his actions, right down to his inability to use his teeth. He was never known to fight; and, what was still more strange, bones were to him altogether negligible things.

For a character such as this to meet with harsh treatment, much less cruelty, was, if not to ruin it completely, at least to undermine all confidence. Yet this, sad to relate, was now precisely what befell. Up to this, life had been without a cloud. Of course, as in every other society, there had been the necessity of fending for oneself--of picking up a scrap, for instance, quickly, if you wanted it at all. Such things are good, and make for progress and development. But harshness and unkindness, like injustice, had been altogether foreign to the mill and all who lived or worked there. Life sped on in that favoured spot with as even a surface as that of the river, whose waters flowed sluggishly up to the mill, barring the dam, and then went bubbling down the race, revivified and having done its spell, for the time.

How it came about is not now exactly discoverable; but just at this period of Murphy's life a decree was issued that several of the family were to be boarded out; and the next day the young dog found himself moved to the home of one of the mill-hands, half a mile and more away.

The cottage stood alone, and the family inhabiting it consisted of a man and his wife, and a daughter just finishing her schooling. Once there had been a son; but he, like many another in our villages, had gone out--all honour to them!--to strike a blow for his country some five or six years before, and had in quite a short while found a soldier's death. His photograph hung crookedly just above the mantelpiece, with another of a group of his regiment by which he had once set much store, and yet another of the girl whom he had hoped some day to make his wife.

When the glow fell, and the bald, laconic message was delivered one winter evening at the door, the mother bent her head low; and later, when she found speech and had dropped the corner of her apron, was heard to whisper to herself, "'Twas the Almighty's will." Then the tears welled up afresh, as she rocked herself in her chair, gazing at the fire.

The effect upon the father was different. "What...!" he cried, as though some one had struck him. A single candle flickered on the table; his lips were drawn tight across his teeth; his fingers clutched the table-lid convulsively, and he leant across in the direction of his wife.

"What...!" he exclaimed again.

"They've killed un," repeated the wife, the candle-light reflected in her staring eyes. "Seth, Seth," she continued, following her husband, who had taken up his hat, and was making for the door--"oh, Seth, Seth--'tis the Almighty's will, man; I do know for sure it be;--Seth, Seth...!"

But Seth Moby had gone out into the night; and from that time forward he walked as one suffering some injustice. He had always been a man of uncertain temper, but this blow appeared to sour him. It is well to remember that once at least in his life he had loved deeply.

* * * * *

The Over-Lord brought Murphy to the door, and arranged matters with Martha Moby, just as he had often done with others in the same way. The day had been wet; the lane on to which the garden-gate opened was muddy; the dog had dirty feet. "You'll take care of him, I know. He's a good dog--a good dog," he repeated, when he left.

It was after dark when Moby returned. "Wants for us to kep the dog, do 'e? There be a sight too many on 'em about; and for what he do want to kep such a lot o' such curs, nobody can't think. A-bringin' a' the dirt into our housen too. Err ... I'll warm yer!" he added, making as though he would fling something at the dog.

Murphy looked puzzled, and crept into a corner.

"Don't carry on like that, Seth; don't do it, man. The dog's a poor, nervous little thing with we, and don't mean to do no hurt."

But it was of no avail. Seth Moby looked upon Murphy as an interloper, and when he could do anything to frighten him he did, and by any brutal means in his power. Even the mill-hands remarked to one another that their mate, Moby, was a changed man. "'Twas like that wi' some," they said. "Trouble sowered 'em, like, and made 'em seem as though they 'ould throw the Almighty o' one side. And once folk got on a downward grade, same as that, it wasn't often as they was found on the mending hand--no, it wasn't for sure."

On one occasion, after the first week was over, Murphy escaped, and appeared at the mill with a foot or more of rope trailing from his collar, for latterly he had been kept tied up. Seth chanced at that moment to be leaving work, and brought the dog up short by the head, by putting his foot upon the rope end almost before the dog knew that he was there. He half hanged him taking him back, and flung him into the house with an oath that frightened his child, and made her run to the back kitchen that she might not hear what followed; while the dog crept on his stomach to the corner, his tail between his legs: he always moved in this way now, though it is said he never whimpered.

"Oh, Seth, if you goes on like this," said Mrs. Moby reproachfully, "there'll be murder, and then trouble to follow: the Master is not one to put up with cruelty to any dog. Bless the man--you're gettin' like a mad thing. Leave the dog alone, I tell yer." Seth had taken off his boots, and flung them at the dog before going up to bed: Mrs. Moby had been engaged trying to disconcert his aim.

That night another foot was heard on the stairs; there was whispering in the kitchen; and for several succeeding weeks, and unknown to others, the dog slept happily with the child, though not without serious risks of trouble being thereby made for both.

At the end of that time the Over-Lord called. He had been away. He had heard on his return that all was not well with the dog, and had come to see for himself. Murphy had been lying curled up on a sack in his corner, but when he heard the well-known footstep he crawled out, hugging the wall nervously till he reached the door.

"Murphy, lad!" exclaimed the Over-Lord, looking intently at the dog--"Murphy, my little man; that you...!" The dog was fawning on him, saying as plain as speech, "Take me away with you; take me away."

The Over-Lord put his hand down and patted him. He did not say another word, as Murphy followed him out, save "It's not you, Mrs. Moby; it's not you." He had a great heart for dogs, and began to blame himself on his way home for what had evidently occurred. "If the man did not want the dog," he muttered, "he had only got to say so; besides it was his rent to him: it was not done on the cheap--that never does in any line."

When he reached his own house, he took the young dog in with him--a thing almost unprecedented, so far as the rest of the outside company were able to recall. They judged their former companion spoilt, or on the high road to being so.

"It was all that hare," remarked the middle-aged.

"Yes," agreed the moralists--"success is always pernicious to the young!"

Lookers-on generally misjudge, though they claim to see most of the game.

The next morning, by strange coincidence, a letter was delivered at the mill, destined to alter Murphy's future altogether.

IV

Daniel was one of those dogs that die famous, though belonging to a small circle; not famous in the sense in which the dogs of history are so, but because he possessed individuality and stamped himself upon the memories of all who ever met him. And these last were not few, for Dan had travelled widely and had gathered multitudes of friends. Then, again, he possessed those two almost indispensable adjuncts of popularity--delightful manners and a beautiful face. It was his invariable custom to get up when any one came into a room; and when he advanced to meet them, it might certainly have been said that, in his case, the tail literally wagged the dog, for his hind-quarters were moved from the middle of his back and went in rhythm with the tail. His looks were perfect. Being by Pagan I., he possessed not only eyes set in black and a coal-black snout, but also that further characteristic of dogs of his date, the blackest of black ears--a feature now entirely lost in the case of Irish terriers, and never, it is said, to be regained.

Apart from a liberal education and the miscellaneous knowledge he had picked up for himself, to say nothing of a wonderful series of clever tricks, the instinct known as the sense of direction was in his case developed to an altogether abnormal extent. Definite traces of this were noticeable when he was still a puppy; but it was at all times impossible for him to lose his way. As he grew older, this instinct became so marked, that it set others wondering whether or not there existed among dogs a sixth, and perhaps a seventh, sense, lying far beyond the grasp of human, limited intelligence.

Dogs, as we all know, are not the only animals, that possess this mysterious instinct. They share it with many other classes, such as those of the feline tribe, and also with the birds and a number of insects. In fact, all animals appear to possess it in varying degree; they are all more or less able to find their way home. Yet, study it how we may, we are at fault when we try to account for it. In many cases, the homing instinct is apparently governed by sight; but many scientific observers entertain the idea that the sense of smell, in the majority of instances, will be found to lie at the root of the matter. Possibly they are right.

When, however, we are brought face to face with an exceptional exhibition of the sense, we have to confess that we are left unconvinced by any of the theories that have at present been advanced. It is no unusual thing for a dog to find its way home along a road it had not previously travelled, going with the wind, and in the dark. One case is known to the writer where a dog found the ship it had come out in in a foreign port to which it had been taken, and made a voyage by sea, as well as a considerable journey by land on its return to this country, in order to reach its home. A cat also, within the writer's knowledge, found its way back to its home, though it had been brought some distance in a sack lying at the bottom of a farmer's gig, and though the return journey entailed traversing the streets of a busy town. Any one may test a bee's powers in the same way, by affixing to it a small particle of cotton-wool. When liberated, it will take a perfectly straight or bee line to its hive, though this lie at a considerable distance. It is unnecessary to refer to the achievements of carrier-pigeons, when set free after a long journey and the lapse of many hours, or to the way in which rooks, especially, as well as starlings, will find their way to their usual roosting-places across wide valleys shrouded in dense November fogs.

Nor must we succumb here to the temptations offered by the very mention of migrants, though we may well ask, what is the power that enables a swallow to leave the banks of the Upper Nile and arrive at the nest it left the year before, beneath the eaves of a cottage standing on the banks of the Upper Thames? Or what directs the turtle-dove, year by year, from the oleander-grown banks of the streams of Morocco to the more grateful shade of our English woodlands? Yet marked birds have proved the truth of these and still more wonderful achievements.

Instinct, the dire necessity of obtaining proper food, the perpetuation of the tribe--Nature's most imperious laws--lie no doubt at the back of many mysteries. Yet to say this is not to account for the sense before us, any more than it is to solve those innumerable problems that are scattered all along our several roads, and that we stumble over every step we take. Leaving out of count such systematic, and apparently scientific, labours as those of the ants, bees, and wasps, we constantly find in the animal kingdom powers being exercised, as, for instance, in the case of the earthworms and the moles, that are not to be explained by the use of the words instinct, intelligence, and necessity. The humblest of animals appears often to be handling forces with ease and familiarity, the range of which it must apparently, if not obviously, be unaware. But if this last is true, and these animals that are blind walk blind, what are we to say of ourselves, when we are frequently doing the same, and handling forces that we are totally unable to define?

The digression is a lengthy one; but even now a further step must be taken. The man has, in the dog, his one real intimate in the whole animal world. It will be generally admitted that the dog depends exceptionally upon the man and the man often largely also upon the dog, and that in this we have yet another instance of that interdependence that is to be found throughout Nature and wheresoever we look. This, however, is not the chief point in considering the relationship existing between the two. There is something much deeper, and that goes much further.

Man, we are told, holds supreme dominion on Earth. He is King over all things living, both great and small; and this constitutes at once his endowment and his responsibility. Yet this supreme power is being perpetually modified, not only by the forces he seeks to control--whose so-called laws he has to obey, if they are to be subjected to his use--but also by those very creatures to whom he stands in the relation of a King. It is here, in the animal kingdom, that the action of the dog once again stands first; for what powers of modification and influence can transcend those which effect a frequent and practical impression upon the actions of this so-called King,--by appealing, as the dog often does, to man's moral sense; by claiming love outside man's own circle, in return for love given without stint; by calling for a wider self-sacrifice, in the light of a trustfulness and loyalty that is exhibited here and nowhere else in Nature in the same unfaltering degree?

The dog does all this and more, as will be shown, and by ways and instincts that are as unfathomable as the one to which reference has just been made.

It is time to return to the more homely matter of Dan, that instances may be given of how, on one occasion out of many, he exhibited the possession of the sense of direction, and also of the eye he had for country.

The writer had to make a journey to a neighbouring town by rail. The distance as the crow flies was not more than six miles, but the railway journey took the best part of an hour and entailed a change and waiting at a junction. Daniel accompanied him, having never made the journey before, or visited the junction, or the station of the town referred to. On arrival, the writer elected to walk. Now Daniel was almost entirely strange to towns, and, though all went well at first, he finally succumbed to the fascinations of the streets, and disappeared. Every means were at once taken to find him; the police station was visited, the cab-drivers were warned, and a reward was offered. In the end, the writer had to return without the dog, and face the reproaches of the family. A gloom fell upon the house for the rest of the evening. But soon after ten o'clock a bark was heard, the front door was thrown open, and Daniel entered; in a state, it may be added, that bordered on hysterics, and with the tail wagging the dog more violently than ever. It was seven hours from the time he had been missed, and no light was ever thrown on how he had accomplished the journey.

A dog's memory is proverbial. There is ample reason for believing that many dogs, when once they have smelt your hand, never forget you. But they also often appear to make mental notes of what they see, and to retain these in their minds. A retriever that has worked long on an estate will be found to know the position of almost every gate and stile in every field, and will use his knowledge instantly as occasions arise. He equally appears to know the rides of the woods within his beat, and where they lead. In other words, he has, in hunting parlance, an eye for country; and here is an instance from Daniel's life by way of illustration.

To reach a neighbouring village on one occasion, the writer used a tricycle. There was only one road to this village, distant five miles, and this was bounded on one side by woods and on the other by the river Thames, which it was necessary to cross at the outset. Here and there between the road and the river were houses, the gardens and grounds of which were surrounded by walls and fencing extending to the river-banks. The tow-path was on the further side. It chanced that after three miles had been traversed, another tricycle caught up the writer and passed him. Dan was ahead, mistook this machine for his own, and went on out of sight. The weather looking threatening, the writer decided to return home, feeling confident that the dog would discover his mistake and follow. A bicycle now overtook the writer, the rider of which, in answer to inquiries, said that he had seen an Irish terrier entering the village he had left, three miles back, cantering in front of a tricycle. There was nothing to be done but to go leisurely home, waiting every now and then to see if the dog was coming, while growing always more and more uneasy at his non-appearance. At last the home was reached--and on the front-door mat sat Daniel!

The dog was perfectly dry, and had still the dust of the road on him. He could not therefore have swum the river; moreover, he had no taste for water. Equally, he had not come along the only road; while it was impossible for him to have travelled through the woods or along the land lying between the road and the river. There was only one solution of the difficulty, and this was undoubtedly correct. In his walks along the hills the dog must have noticed a railway in the valley and its bridge across the river. He had certainly never been along this railway or over this bridge. But he remembered its existence when he was lost, made his way to it, got over the river without the necessity of swimming, and reached home across country in time to meet his master, and with an expression on his face of, "Well--what do you say to that?"

One more story of him must be given, showing his extraordinary sagacity as well as his determination. When he had set his mind on anything, brick walls were well-nigh powerless to stop him. He obeyed one man, if he were by; in his absence, he acted solely in furtherance of the plans he had in mind, and always with a knowing expression on his face.

He was paying a visit in the West of England, and had quickly found his way about. One day at luncheon some one was rash enough to remark in Dan's hearing that the carriage was going out. To run with the carriage was strictly forbidden, and this Dan never failed to resent, as he did also being shut up before the carriage came round. "Carriage" was one of the thirty-eight words with which he was intimately acquainted, and when he heard it used on this occasion he may have made mental notes concerning plans to which he vowed he would be no party. However this may have been, shortly before the hour arrived for the carriage to start Dan could nowhere be found.

The road leading from the house branched into three at the end of about a mile; and, as this point opened to view on the afternoon in question, a yellow figure was seen to be standing there motionless, evidently waiting to see which of the three ways the carriage would take. Needless to say it was Dan, and that of course he had his run.

But an end must be made of chronicling the further remarkable achievements of this wholly remarkable dog--his sage comments as he grew older, his faithful discharge of his duties as he roamed the passages at night, his intense love of sport and his deeds in that field in spite of his being hopelessly gun-shy, his large heart, and those beautiful manners which he still made pathetic efforts to show, even when he moved with great difficulty and was both deaf and almost blind. He was just a high-bred gentleman; and he had about him something of the courtesy of the old school, which will still be discernible in some dogs when we have finally and altogether lost the art ourselves.