Chapter 3

Daniel was now growing old, if indeed he had not already done so. It was obvious that he could not last much longer--perhaps a year; not more--and it was necessary, therefore, to find an understudy. Irish terriers had been a part of the household for many years. Yet another must be discovered, though, as all agreed, there could never be another like Dan.

Thus it came about that inquiries were made in likely quarters, and a letter was despatched to one who could be trusted, and who was known the country over for the dogs he owned.

V

"Yes," came the answer; "I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an old dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but the one I speak of is a _good_ dog, with good manners and a very gentle disposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs, but you shall have this one for ---- guineas, and I will send him along any day that may suit you.

"I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as Murphy."

Two days later a dog's travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a little country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer. Lying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that had to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror was he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the difficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the station with him.

At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy, when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon his feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house was reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of good food.

And this poor little abject was Murphy!--Murphy, the dog with the pedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a standstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel, and that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company. If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean sweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a happy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A sorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a playmate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.

"Murphy!"--Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or eat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he hugged the ground closer than before, shifting his chin backwards and forwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left clear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.

Presently one looked in, and passed sentence without more ado: "Oh, you poor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can't keep a dog like that--it is impossible!"

Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him, and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were friends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner of the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near. What did it all mean?

Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in truth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the lower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another, till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had rarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was the "new dog," as he had already come to be called, for he surely was not worthy of a name.

A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though with the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing was definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog would almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came, in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in something serious.

"'Give a dog a bad name...' We all know the rest. To return this dog is for him almost certainly to be shot--at least, I wouldn't give a penny for his life."

Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with his eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing, and went his way, voting the house to be upside down.

That day passed without improvement, though every effort was made and a walk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company, for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following matters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are down to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the unlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably strange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with incidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not shall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also which "he seemeth to have." So be it. No doubt, in the majority of instances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such things come hard.

The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, part studio, and part a good many other things. A large picture--the canvas measured six feet--was being worked upon on this second morning after the young dog's arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that an accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The easel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things into limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the unfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a mixed assortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To add to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from various parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged; and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been killed. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange proceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was frightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore gone from bad to worse.

There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was judged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would assuredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done was to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared. Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not whimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now occurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and, unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog, reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had furthermore been generated--a fact, though unsuspected at the time, that was to prove the hub round which Murphy's whole future was destined to revolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really fail--unless, as Murphy's countrymen might say, the person appealed to proves heartless.

Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening contained words to this effect:

"I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent you the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much puzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before writing to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many breeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I come across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him. Even my old dog's presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have been able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost doubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been cruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot, somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes, with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for it. However, we must hope for the best."

To this came answer:

"In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me again then. I assure you the dog is a _good_ dog. Perhaps his surroundings are strange to him. They must be. The old dog will help him to come round, I feel sure."

A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy was on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to a corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking of a typewriter--a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.

"Ah, Murphy; you're a nice dog, aren't you?" The dog had gone to the door, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him. "I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible," he added; "and I wanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the matter, for this is a good dog--a nice dog: I know he is. He'll come all right. Just please give him time; and then, if you don't like him, send him back. He is as good a dog--gentle, you know, gentle--as I've bred. Why, I can assure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)--I refused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will judge he is well enough in the matter of class."

"Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer."

"Well--I'll tell you. I didn't like the man's face that wanted them; nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they go to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey here, as soon as ever I could get the time. He's a nice dog; a good dog--I'm sure of it."

"You don't think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account for his extreme nervousness, do you?"

"Well--I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though, this morning. These things aren't arrived at in a minute, you know. One working-man very rarely splits upon another."

Then followed the whole story. "It was cruel--cruel," he jerked out at the end, finishing with, "I may as well tell you, I never liked the man. Latterly his work was anyhow--went from bad to worse, and I discharged him."

There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog lying between them. The dog's eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant eyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep sigh, as much as to say, "It's all quite true--quite true."

If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end to it now. Here was a dog--a young life--that had once, and not so long ago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted fun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one that had never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his fate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large brilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course--inherent nervousness, probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one of Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and claimed the exact opposite.

Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a man? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it is not; that the dog is often the better of the two.

How the thoughts raced through the brain!

"Murphy?" It was his new master that called him now.

Perhaps the presence of the Over-Lord had given the young dog confidence: _he_, at least, had been linked with happy times. Murphy got up hesitatingly and came to his new master's chair, with his ears drooping. He even suffered himself to be taken into this new master's lap, though not without great nervousness.

And after that the Over-Lord rose and said good-bye.

"No, Murphy, we won't part," were the last words he heard as he left the door; and this was the last time the generous Over-Lord was destined ever to set eyes on Murphy.

VI

Others laughed when they heard the final verdict, and called the undertaking hopeless and sentimental. The hopelessness remained to be proved; and, as to the sentimental part of the business, some one averred that sentiment lay at the bottom of most things. It might be unpractical from a philosophic point of view, as well as often fitting matter for a jibe; but sentiment, all the same, was generally a source of strength! Without it neither nation nor man would be likely to get far; it reflected the noblest part of man's nature, and touched a nation at its quick, if flags meant anything, and were to be followed and set store by.

There was quite a bandying of words over the matter. This dog was so different to Dan. It was not a matter of argument, certainly not on abstruse points. The dog had been broken in nerve, and admittedly by ill-usage. Probably he had been nervous from the first, and there was therefore all the less chance of his recovery.

To this was interposed the fact that many well-bred dogs are constitutionally nervous, and continue to be so all their lives, their condition in this respect being probably largely due to their brain development and increased powers of imagination.

That might be the case, came the answer; but all the same--how about the tail? The nervous organisation of this dog and his imagination had to do with his brain, which his eyes showed to be capable of development. These points had to do with the head. What about the other end? The index to a dog's character, as well as to his immediate proceedings, lies, as we all know, in his tail--the angle at which it is held, the way it moves or remains stiff and immovable; its position before a fight, its twist to one side when stalking, its confident carriage when the owner has "got his tail up." All these are so many signals, generally recognised by man and other dogs alike. Granting all this, what was to be said here? This dog had now been several days in the house, and no one had apparently seen his tail: it had been kept firmly down, and in such a way as to suggest that had it been long enough it would have been well between his legs.

At this, some one said that he had seen it once, and it was bushy; the only effect of this remark being to elicit the rejoinder that "_then_ it wanted pulling." Another averred that, of course, nothing could be hoped for till he got his tail up: the job was how to set about securing so essential a condition in the case of the tail of this particular dog. No doubt the first thing to be done was to win him to the habit of standing on his feet: it was obviously impossible to attempt anything with the tail till this was achieved. So far, his attitude had been best describable as that of the prone position. If anybody moved, he crouched still lower; if he was persuaded to enter another room than the one he had particularly taken to, he grovelled; if there was any sudden movement or noise, he was terror-stricken; and, added to all this, it was obvious that he could never be a watch-dog, for he refused to sleep alone.

Of course he ought to have gone back; and all these notions about "bringing him round," giving him another chance and a happy life, were so much high faluting rubbish.

In the face of such arguments, based, as they obviously were, on universal testimony, even the faith of the person most nearly concerned and wholly responsible must, it was judged, eventually give way.

But if counsels and opinions alike failed to alter the decision that had been come to, they equally also supplied no answer to the momentous question--how, seeing he was to be kept, was the confidence of this dog to be won? There was hope in Dan, of course. He would teach him plenty of things, and tell him much besides. A good deal of faith was placed in this direction. But, even then, what about the general training? This dog would run riot, be disobedient and unruly, hunt when and where he should not, like other dogs before him, or even run sheep. If these things happened, what was to be done? To thrash him would be almost an act of cruelty by a dog of such a temperament: it might make him more nervous than ever, even if he could be caught for the purpose and made to understand the rudiments of cause and effect. Dan had learnt to "come and be thrashed," when such was necessary and he was summoned in those most ominous of words. It might be possible to teach Murphy in the same way: dogs, somehow or other, were almost universally capable of differentiating between justice and injustice, and bore no resentment. The reflection gave relief. Yet what would be the effect upon this dog if Dan was in trouble and took to shouting "Murder," as he usually did long before he felt the stick?

The problems were many, and grew in number the more the whole matter was considered. Two things shaped themselves from the first: there must be absolute fairness and justice; and, what was of no less importance, there must never be any trace of loss of temper in what had to be done, however trying the case might be. To show anger, to give an extra stroke when the stick was up, to be hasty for an instant, would be to fail ignominiously, to the mutual unhappiness of both.

The whole enterprise was thus obviously full of pitfalls. Yet faith declared this way: by kindness, sympathy, and self-control the end might be attained, confidence won back, the young life put into touch with happiness again.

As the further aspect of the question was considered, it looked rather as if, while the man was trying to train the dog, the dog might equally be all the time training the man. Here was one none too strong, whose nervous organisation had been shattered, and whose confidence had been wholly undermined. To win back what had been lost would be difficult enough in the case of a man; how would it be in the case of a dog? Oddly enough, too, the conditions of life of neither party here were of the normal kind--in one case never could be so. Yet here were these two, and by the merest chance, placed in juxtaposition. A strange link was forging itself apparently, quite unknown to both, and coupling the one firmly to the other, though neither was aware of it.

It was not until some time had passed that the position took a more definite form, and the question repeated itself--what if sympathy grew up and blossomed into something fair, with love and mutual confidence as its accompaniments? Such might result, perhaps. The thought added interest to the problem as it floated through the mind and was lost again.

There was nothing uncommon in the possible situation; it had occurred again and again. History furnished innumerable instances. Folklore, with its roots in truth, told endless stories of similar complexion. The Dog and the Man; the interdependence of both: living things of like passions--sharers of like passions; fellow-helpers, the advancement of the one having kept pace with that of the other, right up from the days when, in prehistoric times and the Neolithic age, as is shown by the bones that are found, the dog shared the home of the man and partook of his food--right up from the days when the Egyptians, though they dubbed him unclean, worshipped this animal, and, because of his fidelity and courage, gave him a place as one among three who were to share with them the joys of Paradise.

The same story is to be traced through all the ages. Even Ulysses could shed a tear for Argus, hiding the fact as well as he might from Eumæus; and Tristrem and Ysolde, in the legend, took Hodain to be their intimate companion, because he had once shared with them "the drink of might." So, too, the great Theron walked as the close companion of the Gothic king; and Cavall became the trusty servant and liegeman of King Arthur. The huge white hound Gorban sat ever at the side of the Welsh bard Ummad as he sang his songs; and the beautiful Bran was the friend for life of Fingal. Most men have heard of William the Silent's spaniel, who saved his master's life; and many may have seen the form of the dog, fashioned in white marble, lying at his master's feet on the well-known tomb at Delft. We have each read of Scott's Maida. And if some, perhaps, have made a pilgrimage to that long and narrow mound in the vale of Gwyant which, according to tradition, marks the resting-place of the immortal Gelert, others have read of the faithful Vigr who never again tasted food when he learnt that Olaf, his master, lay dead.

The stories are without end; and romance knows no limits when dealing with the subject. The lives of the Man and the Dog are found to be ever intertwined. Yet is there always this besides--the rift in the lute and the familiar refrain, that the life of the dog shall be short, and that Man shall go on his way with his head bent, till such time as he shall become rich once more in the love of a new-found friend--if that be always possible.

No man, it has been well said, can be deemed unhappy who possesses the love of a dog; and none are too poor to win it, as none are too high to rejoice and grow glad in it. The dog, at least, knows no difference of class or place in his attachments. To him his home is his home; his master, his master and friend, whether his lot be to follow the tramp on the road, or to walk behind a king to the tomb. And perhaps it may be due to the mystery lying at the back of this wonderful intimacy and connection, stretching far back into an altogether hidden past, that to strike another man's dog unjustly is equivalent to striking him; that to hurt a dog with intent is to earn the worst of characters and to stain one's kind; and that for a dog to be in trouble and claim aid is for him to claim also the man's heart--even, as has many a time occurred, the man's life--to the infinite glory of both.

Nor has it been only on man's side that such deeds of heroism have been exhibited. The man, the woman, and the child have undoubtedly gone to the dog's help at the risk of their own lives on many an occasion; but so also has the dog risked his for the sake of the man--not from any moral claim, not because life is a precious thing and must be saved, not because of that power which impels, and whose chief gift is the sense of after-satisfaction that comes even to the most disinterested; such things lie necessarily beyond the reach of the dog mind. What the dog does is done for love, because of his faith, and because, unlike any other living animal, he thinks, in his unselfishness, more of his friend than he ever does about himself.