BOOK I

LIFE HISTORIES

THE “ONE DOG” AND “THE OTHERS”

THE CHILD OF THE HOUSE

“_I have lost many a friend, but never one So patient, steadfast, and sincere as he-- So unforgetful in his constancy._”

“The One” of all dogs for me was a long, low Skye of the old-fashioned drop-eared kind. In breed and build he was just what I had always said I would _not_ have as a house dog, yet I never regretted the weakness that forbade me to send the forlorn little stranger away. He had no eventful history, and though I am persuaded that no other of his kind was ever quite so intelligently sympathetic and altogether lovable as he, I have nothing to relate of him that “The Others” will not outdo at every turn. Yet for me he is the one apart, and his memory has all the fragrance of richest perfumes from friendship’s garden.

It is in his life, and in those of my friends’ dogs, whose life histories I have written, that I have found the data for such thoughts and fancies concerning our relations with the dog, and of the various pleasures, pains, and obligations that result therefrom, which I hope my readers may share with me.

The summer in which Mr. Gubbins came to me, I had a lady staying with me, who was also a great lover of dogs. A brother of this friend it was, who brought the little aristocrat with the strangely incongruous name to ask a temporary shelter, while his owner looked out for a suitable home for him. This man, another keen dog-lover, had seen and admired the beautiful young Skye at a country house where he was staying. He made friends with the timid, shy animal, who belonged to no one in particular in the house, and when the visitor left, the terrier was offered to him. He could not find it in his heart to refuse, so he brought it to his sister to take care of. I may say that at the time I had a Basset hound and a bulldog, both of which slept in my room at night

When this friend came into my study, where his sister and I were sitting, my astonishment was great to see a long, grey, hairy creature, of which nothing could be distinguished but his magnificent coat, slip in at the door behind the visitor. After a short pause, during which the bright eyes hidden behind a cloud of hair were doubtless taking in the bearings of the situation, the terrier made straight for the long, low chair at the further end of the room, where I was sitting, and curled himself up behind it. My other dogs were in the garden, and there was no one to dispute the refuge with him. He submitted quietly to caresses, but was evidently so frightened that he was soon left in peace, while the reason of his advent was explained.

He had gone as a puppy to his late owners, from his breeder Mr. Pratt, whose long-haired Skyes were at one time well known in Hyde Park, where their master took them for their daily exercise. These dogs were bred with the nicest care, and the strain that came from Lady Aberdeen’s kennels had been preserved. Pratt, who was a butler, living with a family on the Bayswater side of the Park, was devoted to his dogs, but as he could not keep a great number of them, and doubtless looked to making his hobby a profitable investment, the puppies were sold at a remunerative price.

In the case of my own favourite, he had gone early to his country home, and, not having been trained to the house, he was put in the charge of a gamekeeper to have his education completed. This man, whose very name I do not know, had little idea of the gentleness required for successful training. He was harsh and ill-tempered, and the shy, wild little creature, who all his life long was one of the most sensitive of his kind, was years before he recovered from the experiences of those early months. He was cowed and frightened, and, not having the bright merry little ways of puppyhood, he won no favour from any member of the family when he was sent up to the house with his first hard experience of life behind him. He crawled about the grounds by himself, and only asked to be left alone and unnoticed, so that he might escape the rough usage that he associated with intercourse with the superior being. The long grey form was creeping over a wide expanse of lawn, looking a dejected enough specimen of his race, when the visitor saw him from his bedroom window, and was struck by his great beauty. When Gubbins left with his new owner he accepted the experiences of the journey by road and rail with the dejected submission that only gradually gave place to a real joy in living as he began to forget what harsh words and blows, and the chilling guardianship of kindly but unloving owners, were like.

For the first weeks he was regarded as my visitor’s property, and for a few nights he slept in her room. But in spite of this, and of the constant presence of my own dogs with me, he attached himself to me from the first. He spent long hours curled up behind my study chair, or, if he could gain entrance to my bedroom, he would lie contentedly under the bed. I took very little notice of him, as I did not wish to become fond of him, and was only anxious that he should find a good home before my visitor left me. But very soon Gubbins would follow the other dogs when they rushed up or downstairs in front of me, and he and the Basset being of unusual length of body and shortness of limb, my friend always used to call the procession, “dog by the yard.” Gubbins was so quiet and harmless that the others from the first seemed to accept him as not worth disputing with. When I was busy in my study I soon got into the habit of putting down my hand to pat the little hairy ball that was sure to be within reach, for the garden gambols of the other dogs had as yet no attraction for him. Then one night he got into my room, and was so reluctant to be taken off to his usual quarters that he was allowed to stay, and from that time to almost the end of his long life he never slept away from me when I was at home.

By the time my friend’s visit came to an end I had begun to wonder if I could ever give him up. As no suitable home offered, and the weeks passed, Gubbins carried the citadel by assault by reason of an illness he had at the very time I had a friend seriously ill in the house. Between my duties in the sick-room I made hurried visits to the suffering dog, who spent his time by the now deserted chair in my study. He would eat nothing but what I gave him, and by his touching trust in, and affection, for me he fairly won my heart.

It was not long after this that Gubbins had his first and only taste of show life. I had been asked to support a dog show in the neighbourhood, and consequently entered him and another of my dogs, Gubbins at that time being about three years old. On the morning of the show, he was taken and delivered over to the authorities, as I was not able to go myself till later in the day. When I entered the show ground I made my way at once to the place where the Skyes were benched, but could see nothing of my dog. The attendants could give me no tidings of him, and it was a kindly stranger who, overhearing my inquiries, at last told me he had seen a Skye in the pet dog section of the show, and he added, “the sooner he was taken away he thought the better.” I hastened to act on the suggestion, and to my great annoyance found my poor Gubbins, looking the picture of misery, benched in a place only large enough for a dog half his length and size. He was, indeed, so stiff and cramped when I took him out that he could hardly stand. The man in charge of the benches was quite deaf to my assertion that it was cruelty to put a dog in a place so obviously unfit for him, and in spite of the absurd mistake that had been made he tried to refuse to allow me to move him. To this, not unnaturally, I paid no heed, but taking Gubbins with me I told the man I would see the secretary about the matter. When I found this functionary, a much harassed individual, who seemed far from being at home at his duties, I was told curtly that he supposed the mistake was mine in entering the dog for a wrong class! In any case it was against the rules of the show for a dog to be taken from the benches until the judging was over. Nevertheless Gubbins did not return to his martyrdom, and it took him many days to recover from the effects of the combined foolish treatment, and the terror he had suffered at finding himself among strangers. I decided that any honours he might win would be dearly bought, as it was clear his early experiences had made him unfit for show life, and I always refused to let him try his fortune again.

My other dogs were sent to new homes when I gave up my house, but Gubbins became a great traveller, and accompanied me everywhere in the wanderings of the next few years. At first he was quiet as a mouse when taken by carriage or train, and I had no anxiety as to his ever wandering from me, even in the most crowded thoroughfares. But as his nature recovered its tone, and a bright, joyous, and independent outlook on life became habitual to him, he grew wilful and over confident that my protection was sufficient to rescue him from any trouble. Yet he was three months in my house before he lost the habit of keeping himself hidden from view, and was, as I have said, always concealed behind or under some article of furniture. The slightest accidental touch of a foot, even the gentlest, was enough to make him flee in terror, and for hours afterwards he would not come out from his shelter, or respond to any caresses. Almost to the end of his life, until sight and hearing were impaired, he always rushed into the most secluded corner he could find whenever strangers came into the room, and no blandishments would draw him out while they remained.

I thought at first that his spirit had been so utterly broken that he would never recover, but would always need the care lavished on a semi-invalid. But gradually and surely he began to show the natural fearlessness of his disposition and the bright playfulness that afterwards distinguished him. Little by little he gained courage, and secured his place as first favourite in the house. I do not think, however, that he was ever quite happy while the other dogs remained, though he thoroughly enjoyed his daily scamper with them.

After his first illness he would never feed in the outhouse where the dogs’ dinner was made ready for them. Daily complaints came to me that Gubbins would not touch his food, and though if I went out and petted and encouraged him he would begin to eat heartily, the instant I turned away he stopped, and no one could induce him to take another mouthful. I said sternly that he must be left till natural hunger forced him to give up the fancy, and it was only when I found how thin and weak he was getting that one day I ordered his previously rejected food to be brought into the dining room. The bowl was put down on a newspaper, spread out for a tablecloth. Gubbins watched the proceedings with interest, and then with much tail wagging, fell on the food with a will and quickly disposed of it. Never after this did he attempt to go near the other dogs when they were feeding, but at breakfast time curled himself up near the spot where his bowl had been placed, and waited till it was brought to him. That I do not shine as a disciplinarian with my pets must, I fear, after this be conceded, for there are drawbacks to feeding a long-haired dog on your dining-room carpet. It only needed a day or two to show Gubbins that manners in the house were not quite on a level with those of the dogs’ feeding-place. As soon as the last mouthful of food was disposed of, a kennel duster was brought into play to remove the remains of the meal from the long hair about the mouth and at the tips of the beautiful ears. After the first time or two he showed his appreciation of the new régime by standing quietly with his head over the dish where he had just finished eating, and if he was not attended to immediately he would look round to see the cause of the delay.

His enormously thick coat required the most careful daily grooming, and the time spent on this was not an unmixed pleasure to Gubbins. For some time he submitted quietly, as he did to everything else that was asked of him, but by the time he had won his place in the dining room, and the kitchen regions had become unknown ground to him, he sometimes showed resentment at the treatment his tangled locks entailed on him.

The first serious difference of opinion I had with him came over his refusing a piece of toast he had asked for at breakfast. As he had asked for it, he must be made to eat it. But each time the usually coveted dainty was put before him his tongue came out, and with a contemptuous flick sent it rolling over the floor. He was told it must be eaten, and a mutinous determination not to obey was shown in the pose of his head, for one can hardly speak of expression where the face, even to the eyes, was entirely covered with thick, falling hair. But the whole contour of his form expressed a great refusal, and it was felt that a lesson of obedience must be given.

When the meal came to an end the toast was again offered and rejected, and before I left the room Gubbins was fastened to the leg of the table, and I told him the toast must be eaten before he would be released. While the maid was clearing away the breakfast things Gubbins lay perfectly quiet, but as soon as he found himself shut in alone he began to call and struggle. I went in more than once to see if the dispute was at an end, but no, there lay the rejected morsel, and Gubbins would have none of it. When the hour arrived for the daily walk great sounds of unrest came from the room, and once more looking in I found, to my astonishment, the dog had actually succeeded in dragging the fairly large dining table quite out of its place, in the direction of the door. A chorus of angry barks showed his displeasure, but there still lay the uneaten toast. At this moment, while the door was standing open, the other dogs came into the hall on their way out. “Is Gubbins to come with us?” asked their guardian. “No,” I answered. “If he will not eat the toast he must be left at home.”

Behind the bundle of hair I could just see two bright eyes fixed on my face. The front door opened, and the other dogs rushed out. Gubbins sat up, listening intently, and when he found the others were actually going without him he looked round for the object of contention, flung himself upon it, swallowed it, and then rushed barking to the end of his tether, demanding to be set free. Needless to say this was done, but the excited, quivering dog turned for one second to give my hand a dainty, propitiatory lick before he rushed off wildly in pursuit of the others.

The lesson was remembered, but all through life, from this point, a wilful determination to have his own way was one of his characteristics. This I attribute to the reaction from the harsh treatment of his early days, and though it is probable that with firmer discipline it might have been overcome, I found it impossible to resort to harsh measures when he was only just coming out from the shell of nervous dread that had seemed to wrap him round from all the enjoyments of life. I fear I hailed the first exhibitions of will as an indication of his recovery to a normal state. A sharp word from me, if given at a sufficiently early stage, would always restrain him, but to others he was not so obedient, and I fear soon learned to trade on the fact that under no circumstances would he be beaten. A flick of a handkerchief he took with stoicism from others, but from my hands it had all the effect of a stronger punishment. He would crawl away, and lie, a picture of dejection, for an hour or more. He was left to feel himself in disgrace, until he would presently come creeping to my feet for the pat of forgiveness that restored him to life and animation.

His devotion to me never wavered, and after each of his severe illnesses I thought I saw a closer attachment show itself in many ways. What, perhaps, was the greatest proof of his unwavering loyalty was that during the last six months of his life, when he was sixteen years of age, nearly blind and partially deaf, and in a state that required him to be carried up and downstairs, and otherwise attended to, I was not able to have him in my room at night, and his care passed greatly into the hands of others. To his guardians he was very affectionate, and especially to the friend who watched over him with the most devoted care, and to whom Gubbins looked for the greatest enjoyment of his life--his daily walk. But there could be no doubt in the mind of any one who was with him, that no one was likely to displace his mistress from the warmest corner of his heart.

He always showed the nicest appreciation of the capacity and duties of those who took care of him. When he was already so feeble that he was generally carried from one room to another, I was astounded to find he realised that I was not strong enough to do this. His knowledge was all the more extraordinary because when in stronger health, I had been in the habit of lifting and carrying him on occasions. But one night when the maid who always carried him into the dining room, and for whom he waited as a matter of course if she was not there when I went to dinner, was absent, Gubbins came out of his basket as soon as I moved and crawled into the other room after me. The following night his attendant was at home, so Gubbins stayed quietly in his basket as usual till she came to fetch him. Often afterwards the same thing happened, and during the whole of the time after his powers had failed he never once appealed to me to lift him. He would make the most determined efforts to mount the garden steps if I was with him, though he never attempted to do so if he was with any one else, but would lie down and wait to be fetched if he was not lifted at once.

At one time when I had him in lodgings, the maid who attended on him was with me, and always carried him up and down the two flights of stairs that led to my bedroom. When the maid was going home for a month’s holiday I wondered what I should do with him. I did not think he could get up by himself, and did not want to call a strange maid to my assistance. At bed-time I went to the stairs as if I expected him to follow me, and the little thing worked his way up with a sideways motion after me, stopping on the landing for a rest, and then finishing the journey. In the morning he followed me down, though this was really a dangerous proceeding, and I had to prevent his taking a roll to the bottom by holding him up with his lead fastened to his collar. This performance was repeated as a matter of course every night and morning for the month, and when the maid returned I told her that Gubbins had learned to go upstairs by himself, and that while he could do so I preferred him not to be carried. When she came to fetch him, therefore, for the night, she told him to follow her, and he went out of the room after her obediently. At the foot of the stairs, however, he laid down, and turning a deaf ear to her calls he quietly waited for her to come back and pick him up.

That under any circumstances Gubbins could refuse his walk I did not believe, till one day I found him lying on the front doorstep, and refusing to move at the entreaties of his prospective companion, the reason being that he had discovered I was about to leave the house. This was when he had been with me about a year, for up to that period he had shown himself equally willing to go out with me or any other of his friends. After this he would never go until he was sure that I was not going out, and many a time he insisted on being let into my study to see if I was there, before he would leave the house. If nothing in my dress suggested a walk he would go off and immediately give himself up to the joys of the coming expedition. When at one time I used to go out in the early morning before breakfast, at a certain stage in my dressing operations Gubbins would always come up to investigate what boots and skirt I had on. If his sensitive little nose told him those were in use that he connected with a walk, he began to bark and jump round me, as if wild with joy, for he knew that he would go too. But if he recognised the skirt in which I usually cycled he crept away dejectedly, for on these occasions I always left him at home. Although his speed would have enabled him to keep up easily with the bicycle, I have always thought it mistaken kindness to allow a dog to go at the stretch of his powers while he keeps in touch with carriage or bicycle, as the prolonged tension is likely to injure the natural action of heart and lungs.

One day, when there was illness in the house, the volley of barks and wild gambols with which Gubbins showed his joy at an approaching walk could not be allowed. I felt a little doubtful if the exuberance of his joy could be kept within due limits, and in any case I knew I was the only person likely to be able to restrain him. When the moment arrived for putting this to the test I knelt down by him, and turning his little head up I put my finger on my lips and in a low, hushed voice told him he must be quiet. He saw I was dressed for walking and knew what was in store. He was, however, evidently impressed, and opening the room door quickly I cautioned him again, and to my great relief only one little half strangled bark escaped before we were safely outside the hall door. Yet he tore down the stairs in his usual headlong manner when excited, and was quivering with eagerness for the coming joy.

After this I was always able to make him go out quietly by the same means, and in a house where he stayed with me for some weeks he learned that under no circumstances was barking allowed indoors. He consequently won golden opinions from the old lady whose feelings he thus spared. But that he felt the long restraint irksome, he would show by a petulant twist of his head from under my hand, when I made one of my many appeals to him to remember the caution. His self control happily lasted to the end of the visit, though I never felt inclined to put it to the same test again.

It was one of the most interesting studies I have ever had, to watch the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind as he threw off the terrors of the past. His strong affection was, as I have said, the first point that showed itself. Then his intelligent appreciation of the ways of the household, and his own place in it, was little by little made plain, and with it came the manifest determination to stand on his rights. It was not, however, till he had been with me for some four years that he began the system of signs and sounds that stood to him in the place of language.

There were certain biscuits kept for Gubbins as a treat when he had behaved with decorum in the dining room, where he used to lie in a corner during meals. These biscuits were known in the household as “Peter Burrs,” owing to the correction given me in the matter of pronunciation by a worthy country grocer, when I stated my wish for “Petits Beurres.” The tin containing these dainties was generally taken from the sideboard by one of ourselves, just before we left the table. Gubbins was always all attention, and at the movement to fetch the tin, he would come out of his corner and bark rapturously. But one day a friend brought me the wrong tin by mistake, and Gubbins, who had been all eagerness as usual to watch for its advent, sat down quietly and did not attempt to come up for the usual offering. It was this conduct that led me to notice the mistake that had been made, for the tins were almost alike in size, though different in colour. The dog’s appreciation of the mistake before we had recognised it, caused such amusement that while this friend was staying with me she often tested Gubbins’s discernment by bringing out the wrong tin purposely. Never was he deceived, though one day he rushed up and barked once before he noticed the tin, but as soon as he saw it he sat down and waited for the mistake to be rectified.

It was when he stole to my side during luncheon, and made his presence known by a delicious little low sound of entreaty, that his language sounds began. I was so delighted with the effort that I took to making him say it before he had one of his much loved biscuits given to him. “Ask, Gubbins,” he was told, and the little entreating sound came as a preliminary to business. Very soon he learned to use the signal to draw attention to any want, such as the need for water, or the opening of a door. Whenever his water dish was empty Gubbins would first call attention to the fact by lying full length in front of it, with his head touching the dish. If this did not succeed he would look round to see why he was not being attended to, and if I was--or pretended to be--wholly immersed at my writing table he would cry quietly to himself,--a little complaining noise that could not be overlooked in its gentle persistence. Once or twice I tested him further to see what would happen, and when Gubbins found that my denseness was not to be pierced by any ordinary means he came up to me and, resting his head against me, “asked.” Then he walked back to his water dish and lay down as before. That here there was a very intelligent adaptation of means to end is evident.

The daily bone thrown to Gubbins was of course a great delight, and once I tried the same experiment that Mr. Herbert Spencer made with his Skye, and with the same result. A string was fastened to the bone and Gubbins had his usual play with it, a necessary part of which was for him to stand growling over it and dare any of his friends to take it from him. This nearly always brought some one on to the lawn to play the part of robber. It was enough for one of his friends to advance gently towards him saying, “Is that for me, Gubbins?” for the little thing to seize it in his mouth and run to a distant part of the lawn, where the performance was repeated. If his friends did not go on playing the game I have known Gubbins to leave his bone and come to ask them to see it out, and only when his spirits had exhausted themselves would he settle down to the enjoyment of the dainty, secure in the knowledge that no one would be allowed to interfere with business. But to return to the experiment. Gubbins was just settling down to the serious part of the performance when I pulled the string and drew the bone gently away. Gubbins gave a startled look at it as it receded slowly, then as it lay still he approached with every sign of caution and stretched out one fat paw. Still there was no movement, and relief and confidence were now expressed in his bearing. Then I jerked the bone to some distance. Gubbins fairly turned tail and fled to me for protection. The sense of the unknown, conditions of which he had no previous experience, terrified him, as did the growling of thunder or the presence of strangers in his own home.

In matters where Gubbins was on known ground his courage was beyond dispute and often brought him into peril. No dog was too large or too strong to call forth hostile demonstrations, if he happened to excite his ire. I well remember the horror with which, on hearing the well-known rush and growl that signalised Gubbins’s dislike of another dog, I turned to see the ridiculous little creature hanging on to the nose of a huge St. Bernard. With one angry toss of his mighty head the larger dog could have broken the spine of his tormentor. Happily the monster seemed too astonished at the onslaught of the hairy mass to do anything beyond give a very gentle swaying motion of the head, which swung Gubbins’s long body from side to side; for even hanging as the latter was at full length, his hind limbs were well off the ground, and he must have made one of his marvellous springs to fasten on the head as he did. Presently his teeth loosened and he dropped from his perilous perch, and he certainly owed his life to the remarkable gentleness of his victim.

Before Gubbins had walked off his excess of spirits in exercise he often gave these mad rushes, sometimes, I grieve to say, at humans. Any unsavoury specimen of the genus tramp always roused his mischief, and so, alas! did any gentle, fragile looking old lady or gentleman who could be depended on to receive his onslaught with a sufficient display of terror to make it worth while. Many were the scrapes from which he was not always rescued with the honours of war, and countless were the apologies made on his behalf. But after his maddest exploit the absurd little bundle of hair would come meekly to my feet, and generally by his very appearance disarm the sufferers. At such a moment caresses from the stranger’s hand were suffered with deceptive meekness, and were evidently taken as the necessary consequence of the previous joy. That the loud bark which would have fitted a dog ten times his size, and the sudden rush at the heels of a passing stranger, were sufficiently alarming, is clear, and a leather lead was soon fastened promptly to his collar whenever a human approached who long experience had taught me was one likely to be singled out by Gubbins as a vent for his excitement. His teeth never came into play, and this showed it was simply the fun of the thing that appealed to him, and not the hostile feeling that often prompted his attacks on fellow dogs.

Gubbins was the most humanly intelligent of all the dogs I have ever owned, and so far as his powers of mind went they appealed perfectly to the same level of expression of our own. While his trust and love were unwavering, his sympathy with anything in the shape of suffering or sorrow was undoubted. He would never leave me of his own free will, if he knew I was in trouble, though it could only have been by the tone of my voice that he discovered there was anything amiss. In the case of physical illness it was the same, and he would lie for hours on the foot of my bed, to which on these occasions he always “asked” to be permitted to jump.

The highest exercise of intelligence he ever showed was prompted by his love, and the amount of reasoning power that led to the successful carrying out of his stratagem shows what a narrow boundary there is between the highest efforts of the animal mind and those where human intelligence begins. I was suffering at the time from malaria, a legacy from a fairly long sojourn in India, and it was decreed by the friend who had taken charge of my sick-room that Gubbins was not to be allowed to disturb me. This lady, who was herself one of Gubbins’s most faithful friends, and was regarded by him with the warmest affection, told him after breakfast that he was not to come to me. That he fully understood what she said he showed by the dejected way in which he turned from her and crawled into his basket. The dining-room door was then shut on him, the back stairs were cut off by two heavy doors, and the passage from the top of the front stairs led past my friend’s bedroom before my own could be reached. From her bedroom, where the visitor sat writing with her door open, she could hear if any of the household should go into the dining room and set Gubbins at liberty. Besides, the flop, flop with which he always jumped from step to step of the stairs was clearly audible over all that part of the house, and this gave her confidence that he could not, in any case, get up without her hearing him.

But the dining-room door had not been fastened securely, and though it was a heavy oak door Gubbins managed to work it open. He then crept upstairs without a sound, and therefore in a very different way to that in which he usually mounted, stole past the open bedroom door, without betraying his presence, and putting his head close to the crack of my door gave one of his tiniest “asks.” So low was it that the watcher in the adjoining room heard nothing. At first I did not realise what had happened, and thought the voice reached me from a distance. But when a repetition came, the peculiar guarded sound of the faint call struck me, and at the third time I knew that by some means Gubbins had found his way to me. Entering into the spirit of the enterprise I opened the door softly and let him in. Without any of the usual manifestations of joy with which he was wont to greet me, he slipped past, and without waiting for the permission he always asked he sprang on the bed and curled himself round with a sigh of content. Then the drowsiness of fever overcame me, and I dozed for some hours, Gubbins also sleeping peacefully at my feet.

When at last my friend appeared, her relief at the sight of the hairy bundle on the bed was great. She told me that a search had been made for him all over the place, both indoors and out, as soon as it was discovered that he had escaped from the dining room. My room had not been thought of, as she felt certain he could not have come upstairs without being heard by her.

The amount of thought and caution exercised by the dog in carrying out his plan was remarkable. After making use of the great muscular strength of his sturdy forepaws in getting open the door of his prison, he had to get upstairs in a way that would not betray his presence. How he managed this we could not understand at the time, but years afterwards I saw him, when still weak from a severe illness, crawl up with a sideways, crab-like motion that explained what he had done to attain his ends in the heyday of his youth and strength. Placing his forepaws on the step above him he hitched his hind quarters up sideways, as his length could only thus be supported on the step, the depth of the stairs not being more than half his length. In this way there was no noise, but he still had to pass the watcher’s open door and convey the fact of his presence to me without letting her know. This accomplished successfully, he did not forget the need for caution when he had made good his entrance, but with a silent caress to my feet, and much wagging of the tail he left his usual mode of welcome severely alone, and, secure of my understanding and abetting, even took possession of one of his most prized rewards, only rarely accorded, by jumping on to the bed without the preliminaries of permission asked and granted that were always insisted on.

Here he showed a clear appreciation of the difficulties of carrying out his plan, and who shall say what was passing in his brain as he stole softly upstairs, passed his friend’s open door without disclosing his presence, and then, with all the precautions a human could have used, succeeded in communicating with me? Not less remarkably did he show his appreciation of the dangers so far conquered, when he exercised needful self-restraint in the expression of his greeting, and sank down at last with a sigh of content as he realised that all was well.

We are told by an eminent writer on the psychology of animals that the feeling of shame stands very high in the development of the emotional powers. In Gubbins its manifestation was very apparent. A flick of the handkerchief or a sharp word from me changed his whole aspect in a second, unless, indeed, the excitement of some forbidden pleasure had taken him in too firm a grip, and the enterprise on which he had started had to be carried out at all costs. But once the excitement passed, shame for his misdeed followed, and was shown in the same way a child will do in the same circumstances, up to the verge of speech. On one occasion, when I was from home all day, the maid in whose charge he had been left neglected to attend to him. The shame-faced little dog that met me on my return, and who put his head in my hand and cried softly, told me that some trouble had happened for which he was not to blame. In the same way when he was suffering from illness that caused occasional attacks of sickness, if by chance he was shut in a room when misfortune overtook him, although he knew he would not be punished for what was not his fault, he could not have shown more shame at the occurrence if he had dreaded chastisement.

Gubbins was a little gentleman in all his ways and feelings, his one lapse from propriety of manners being the rushes by which he helped to work off the excitement of his walks. He could always be depended on to preserve a neutral attitude towards any stranger staying in the house, if I performed a sort of introduction by putting my hand on my visitor’s arm and telling Gubbins that he or she was my friend. The same course had to be adopted with a new maid, and if a fearless pat was then given him by the new-comer, I knew that as long as that person was in the house there would be no trouble. But if, on the other hand, the slightest fear of him was shown, it behoved me to be careful, for if that maid came in his way when he was under the influence of any excitement such as that of his daily walk, there would be the same attempts to upset her equanimity by which he distinguished himself out of doors. No use of the teeth, but just the communication of his own excitement to one who his instincts told him could be relied on to respond. To secure the clatter of a fallen tray, or the headlong rush of a frightened maid downstairs, while he stood growling and barking at the top, as if ready to tear her in pieces, gave him, I grieve to say, under such circumstances, the liveliest enjoyment. But when he was shut up to reflect on his misdemeanours, by whatever process these were brought home to him, an unmistakable feeling of shame was displayed as soon as he had recovered his normal state.

The abject depression with which he crept from view one very wet autumn, the first time his long coat was clipped about his legs and the under part of the body, took a long time to recover from. For days a remark on his appearance, or a laugh at his expense by any visitor, would cover him again with shame. His self-respect had been wounded, and the same feeling was shown when he was taken out for a walk the first time after a severe illness. The poor weak dog could only totter along for a very short distance. But on the way he met another dog, and as soon as Gubbins saw him approaching, the change in his demeanour was instantaneous. With head and tail erect, and a general air of alertness and strength, he passed his rival, walking on the tips of his toes, as he was wont to do in better times. A few steps carried him triumphantly past, and then, the excitement over, the poor little invalid collapsed as suddenly as he had pulled himself together, and rolled over helpless in the dust. Could any animal without a sense of the ego, the personal I, show such a keen sense of the respect due to himself?

A quite marvellous knowledge of time was shown by my favourite. I am not speaking of the hours of feeding, for such knowledge is doubtless due to the promptings of the natural appetite. But how for some months he always knew when the clock pointed to half-past nine I have never been able to ascertain. A lady who was living with me as my secretary at the time was a warm friend of Gubbins, and was accepted by him as such. This lady was not in good health, and used to retire to bed before the rest of the party. In about a week Gubbins constituted himself the guardian of her health in this respect. If she did not move promptly at the half hour he roused himself, came out of his basket, and, sitting at her feet, barked until she got up and said good-night. The performance was so much appreciated that after this Gubbins’s reminder was waited for, and though there was no clock within hearing that struck the half hour, nor so far as we knew any sound that could tell the time, Gubbins was never more than a few minutes either before or after. He would go and sit close at the lady’s feet, lift his head and fix his brown eyes on her face, and bark his signal for her to go. There seemed no reason for him to wish her to leave, as no sooner had she gone from the room, than he went back to his basket and curled himself up to wait for the dispersal of the other members of the family. With no one else did he ever do anything of the same kind.

At one time when I was living in the country, the same inscrutable knowledge of the hour of seven in the evening was shown by him. Once or twice he was taken for a run across the valley below the house to the post, just before the dinner hour at seven-thirty. After that he was always on the look out at seven o’clock, and as soon as he associated the little expedition with one member of the household, he found him out and kept close to him as soon as the hour arrived. Once, when the dinner hour had been advanced, the letters were taken earlier, and Gubbins had not come in from his rambles in the garden and could not be found. He was watching, however, when the messenger returned, and showed that he understood what had happened by taking up his position in good time the following day on a point in the drive where the two ways from the house met, and without passing which no one could leave the place. Often after this he would sit there watching, instead of coming into the house, as he clearly understood that from that spot he had a full command of the situation.

As the gradual unfolding of Gubbins’s mind had been an unfailing source of interest, so was the preservation of his natural characteristics when his powers began to fail. He enjoyed his life almost to the end, and through the last long day of suffering found comfort in the care and affection that were lavished on him. Although for some time his eyesight had almost gone and his hearing was impaired, and other disabilities of old age were upon him, he still went nearly mad with joy at the prospect of a walk, still took a certain modified, though always mischievous, pleasure in making others share his excitement, and made his sense of smell serve for the loss of his other faculties in a quite marvellous way. He always recognised his old friends, and it was a characteristic of his throughout life that he never forgot a single person whom he had once accepted as a friend. It might be months or even years before he saw them again, but he never failed to recognise them.

Various were the names bestowed on him by his many friends at different times. From the absurd “Mr. Gubbins,” he was called by the still more unsuitable title of “Scrub.” This led to a mild joke of a friend of mine, who always inquired after him by the formula, “And how is Ammonia?” A very dear old lady, the mother of the friend through whom Gubbins came to me, spoke of him as “The caterpillar,” moved thereto by the sight of the long dark form that used to steal across her drawing room to find a hidden corner, when he was staying with me in her house. In the inner circle of his home he became “The Hairy Angel” or “The Fascinating Fiend,” according to the nature of his disposition at the moment.

But these names belong to the time of his youth and strength; his beauty he kept to a surprising degree up to the very day of his death. It was touching to see him in his later years, and especially during the last six months when he was all but blind, finding his way about the house by the help of his nose. I have often watched him come into my study when he was looking for me. The room is a double one, and he used to feel for the side of the arch that forms the division, then feel about for the couch that stands on one side of the inner room. From there he touched my bureau, and thence worked about till he found my chair, which was often at some little distance. No sooner did his nose touch the chair than he hurried to the front of it to see if I was sitting there, and feeling the full helplessness of continuing his search if I was not in my usual place, he would curl himself up beside it and cry quietly. I have watched him do this while I stood by the bookshelves in the back room, though I had to be careful he did not find me out, as he came in by the door in that room.

To the last the watchful little head would come up in his basket, and a warning growl give notice of the presence of a stranger, and in his feeble way he guarded his beloved mistress to the end. When the little life went out from the suffering body it left a blank that for those who loved him best can never be filled, but--

“When at last my long day’s work is done, Shall I not find him waiting as of yore, Eager, expectant, glad, to meet me at the door?”

THE DIPLOMATIST

“_Ung Roy, ung Loy, ung Chien_”

Bruce, a beautiful black and tan collie, had the appearance of a gentleman and the finished manners of one accustomed to the usages of society. In the days of his prime he won many honours in the show ring, though his points were not those required by modern fashion. His head was too broad for present-day judges, but this gave space for the brains that made Bruce the most charming of companions. He was light in build, strong, and full of grace and activity, and his beauty he retained almost to the end of his life. His colour, as I have said, was black and tan, the latter a bright golden hue, that was very striking. His eyes were clear and brown, and wonderfully expressive, and over each was a bright tan spot. His ears were half prick, the points of which almost met over his forehead, when he stood to attention. His ruff was magnificent, and had it had the ring of white decreed by fashion Bruce would have carried all before him on the show bench. As it was, the only touch of white about his coat was at the tip of his grand brush, for to speak of it as a tail seems almost an indignity.

But it was the high-bred finish of his manners that won Bruce his many friends. In his home circle he was always gentle and affectionate, though he had the finest grades of distinction in his regard. Any member of the family had a general place in his affections, but that underneath this was a subtle difference in his feelings was shown by his behaviour towards them. To the servants of the house he was always polite, and to the older ones who were admitted to the confidence and respect of their employers, he was even affectionate. But he never gave them the outbursts of unrestrained affection that in moments of excitement he would shower on his special friends in the family circle. Being a great favourite with the servants, he was always something of a tyrant with them, and clearly thought that one of their chief duties in life was to wait on him.

His politeness to visitors was invariable. If he saw strangers coming to the house he would accompany them to the drawing room, and as soon as they were seated would gravely offer a beautiful silky paw. In the same way he would be ready, when they took their leave, to escort them to the front gate, and there once again offer a paw in farewell. This was always a very taking performance of his, and if the departing visitor, after duly accepting the offered salute, said to him, “That is a very cold good-bye, Bruce,” he would instantly offer the other paw in token of good-will. The strangest thing about his attention to visitors was that no one had instructed him, and it was not till Bruce’s hand-shaking was talked of as quite a feature of a call at the house that his master taught him to offer the right paw in salutation. This he learnt as quickly as any other lesson, and with its accomplishment the last touch of polish had been given to Bruce’s society manners.

Bruce came from a large kennel when he was two years old. His pedigree and former history were unknown, and Bruce started in life with only his good looks, his intelligence, and his perfect manners to depend on. When he came to his new home he responded instantly to individual affection and attention, and showed a very strong sense of his personal rights. His master at that time owned another collie, also a house dog, who answered to the name of Lassie. From the day of Bruce’s advent the two dogs took it in turns to pass the night in their master’s bedroom. Bruce always respected the arrangement, and on the nights when it was not his turn to have the place of honour he would curl himself up contentedly on the mat put ready for him in the hall; but Lassie would often try to steal a march on him. She would lay her plans in advance, and creep upstairs before her master retired, and trust to possession to bring her through. As soon as Bruce discovered her tactics he would rush up after her, and do his best to pull her downstairs. Ejected with ignominy from the bedroom, Lassie would still make a fight for it, and entrenching herself on the landing do her best to stand her ground. The commotion of course attracted their master, who would take Lassie by the collar and lead her in disgrace down to her allotted sleeping place in the hall. Bruce would sit smiling at the top of the stairs and watch her down, wagging his tail and giving every sign of complacent satisfaction at having won the day.

It was in his dealings with humans that Bruce showed his talent in diplomacy. He often paid visits with his master, and never failed to bestow the cream of his attention on the most important person present. He singled out his host or hostess and made good his place with them before he took the slightest heed of any one else. His greatest triumph was during a visit to his master’s grandmother. For some reason his owner felt obliged to take him, though the old lady was by no means an indiscriminate dog-lover, and was wont to declare that she “liked dogs in their proper place.” Many were the talks held in the family before Bruce’s departure as to what his reception was likely to be. Did he understand and take his measures accordingly? The result seemed to justify the supposition. In any case, on arriving at the house he settled the matter once for all. Without a word being said to him he went straight to his hostess’s room, and arriving there before his master he sat down in front of the old lady, and, with a grace that instantly won her heart, offered first one silky paw and then the other for her acceptance. By the time his owner arrived Bruce was reaping the first fruits of his diplomacy in the petting and admiration of his new friend. Bruce’s “proper place” after that was any spot he chose in the house, and he was given a warm invitation to repeat his visit when he left.

While he was still new to the show bench he exercised his tact, by getting a man he knew to stay by him, as presumably he felt lonely among so many strange faces. The man was the village schoolmaster near Bruce’s home, and so far had always been treated with polite indifference by him. As the schoolmaster was making a round of the benches he felt a touch on his arm, and there was Bruce with a most amiable expression of countenance holding out a paw to him. The man responded to the advances made to him, and Bruce, all anxiety to please, managed to make him stay by him till one of his own family arrived. The reason of his amiability was then apparent, for Bruce promptly relapsed into his former indifference, and his visitor was allowed to depart without any further notice being taken of him.

When Bruce was more used to the show bench he manifested the most lively appreciation of having been singled out for honours. If no card fell to him he curled himself up on his bench, put his brush over his head, and slept quietly till all was over. But when he had secured a card his demeanour was very different. He sat up with an alert and self-satisfied air, and though as a rule he did not make advances to strangers outside his home, he now seemed possessed with a universal benevolence. He always attracted attention, and to all who admired him he instantly offered to shake a paw in the most affable manner. He used indeed to hold a levée, and thoroughly enjoyed the unwonted importance of his position. So long as he was in the show grounds his general friendliness lasted, but once outside his show manner was dropped and he became chary of notice by strangers.

He never, however, resented advances being made to him unless he was startled. Being nervous and high strung, any sudden rough movement he disliked, and under such circumstances would give a snap to mark his displeasure. He never used his teeth, for he was by no means uncertain in his temper. To other dogs he was usually gentle, but a collie he would always go for. Many were the scrapes he got into in consequence, and when his master had cured him of the trick of making the attack, he would invariably pass a collie with such wanton provocation written in his bearing that the other dog, stirred out of his self-control, always made for him.

Bruce’s enjoyment of practical jokes was great. When a walk was in prospect, his delight was to rush into the hall, and, snatching his collar and lead from their place on the hat-stand, hastily throw them into hiding. A glance at Bruce’s smiling face was enough to tell his master what had happened. Intense enjoyment was displayed by the watching dog, while a search for the missing collar was made. But Bruce’s paws were long, and the place he had selected was not always easy to find. Then his anxiety for the coming joy of the walk would carry all before it, and moving suddenly to the place of concealment he would seize the collar and fling it at his master’s feet. The superior and slightly supercilious way in which he brought to light the hidden thing said as plainly as any speech, “If you are so stupid that you cannot find it, I suppose I must help you.” In the summer he would sometimes change his tactics, and taking the collar and lead in his mouth, would jump a fence or hedge, and lie just out of reach on the other side. If the moment for a joke was not well chosen, and there seemed any danger of his being left behind to enjoy it by himself, he was speedily at his companion’s feet, asking, with an eloquence none the less to be understood because it was mute, to be forgiven and taken out.

His greatest joy was to have stick or umbrella confided to his care during the walk. Solemnly, and with a great show of appreciating the duties of his position, Bruce would walk decorously by the side of the owner of his trophy. But not for long. There would be a sudden flash, and Bruce would disappear over some obstacle where he could not be followed, and after a race round the orchard or field into which he had hurled himself, he would reappear with nothing in his mouth. With expectancy written all over him he waited for the order to “Go, seek.” Obediently he flew the hedge and proceeded to hunt for the missing stick. But the result was always the same. He could not find it. Again and again the same process would be gone through, and no one could look more guileless than Bruce when he returned to tell of his want of success. Sometimes the only way to stop the game was to walk on and leave him to himself, on which he would go directly to the spot where the stick was lying hidden, take it up, and go on decorously as before, carrying it in his mouth.

Bruce acted as if the secrets of the family circle were an open book to him, or at any rate those that concerned himself. As he and Lassie, whatever their private differences, would always unite against a common foe, their master found his walks disturbed by the frequent altercations that arose in the course of them. He announced, therefore, that for the future he would only take out one at a time, and as he was going that day to a town about a mile off, he gave orders that Bruce was to be shut up before he started. Bruce at the time was lying quietly on the hearthrug, and in a short time he got up and went to the door, and was let out into the garden. His master thought no more about him, and later in the day started for his walk, taking Lassie with him. When he had almost reached the town he was struck by the resemblance to Bruce of a dog sitting in the middle of a patch of grass, where three roads met. His own way lay past the spot, and he soon found that Bruce was waiting there for him too far from the house to be taken back, and thus securing his walk. One of his exploits seems almost beyond the realm of the possible, but I can vouch for the truth of the facts as I give them. His master was in the habit of going away on business, and leaving his home on one day, he nearly always returned on the next. On one occasion, however, he said that he should return the same night, and in order to do this he would come by another railway line and reach a station he very rarely used, at 10.30. Bruce as usual was with him when he talked of his plans. That evening when Bruce was let out for his evening run he disappeared, to the consternation of the other members of his family. He was searched for in all directions, but no tidings could be heard of him, and great was the rejoicing when at eleven o’clock he returned. The household had been waiting up for the master, but he did not arrive. The next day he came back by the way he had intended to come the previous day, and he had no sooner alighted from the train than one of the porters who knew him came up and said, “Your dog was here looking for you last night, sir. He saw the train in and seemed to expect you, and when he found you were not here he went off. He would not let any of us touch him.” On arriving at home his master heard of Bruce’s absence the night before, and the chain of evidence seemed complete. Not so the explanation. Bruce’s presence at the station was vouched for by a perfectly disinterested person, who could not have known any of the circumstances attending his master’s journey. The dog’s absence from home at the time was undoubted, so also was his presence when his master stated his plans, but how it was that Bruce was ready to welcome the expected traveller at the station I cannot pretend to explain. It is quite one of the most inexplicable efforts of a dog’s intelligence that I have ever met with.

Though for fifteen years Bruce lived with his family, his life was not without vicissitudes. After a time his master took up an appointment in India, and Bruce had to be left behind. He passed into the care of his master’s brother and sister, with whom he was already on affectionate terms. In his new home, however, he did not have the first place, as a very remarkable spaniel was already in possession. Bruce, with his usual ready tact, though with chastened feelings, took the second place. The cook in his new home was an old servant, whom he had known in his first days of acquaintance with the family. She had indeed passed through various stages in the household, and from nursery maid in “the old house” had risen to be cook to the “young master and mistress.” For Bruce, Harriet had simply a passion. He could never do wrong for her, and in return she was decidedly tyrannised over by him.

But in Nottingham, where Bruce’s lot was now cast, the townspeople appreciate a good dog. So one day Bruce disappeared, and all inquiries about him were unavailing. His guardians gave him up, but Harriet never lost hope and always declared that he would come home. Every night this devoted woman sat up till the small hours of the morning, watching and listening, and with a saucepan of hot soup ready for the wanderer. On the third or fourth night, she heard a feeble call at the front door, and rushing up she found Bruce, with a fragment of dirty rope round his neck. The dog seemed at almost the last stage of exhaustion, and staggering in he was taken to the kitchen fire, and without moving from his place he lapped up a little warm soup, and slept the sleep of exhaustion for twenty-four hours.

Why he should have been so worn out was never explained, as from “information received” it turned out that he had spent his time in a street of small houses not a mile away from his home. His experiences, whatever they may have been, were never forgotten by him, and from that time he showed a disposition to bite every ill-dressed man who approached him.

After five years’ absence Bruce’s master returned, and Bruce on hearing his voice looked at him attentively and then gave him the modified form of affectionate greeting that showed he recognised him as one of the family. The dog seemed puzzled, and the dim memories that stirred in the back of his mind led him to follow his old master to his bedroom at night. There he lay down quietly, and it was not till his master was in bed that the far-off echoes of past days became clear, and with a cry Bruce suddenly hurled himself on the bed and covered his astonished owner with caresses.

When the time came for another long parting Bruce took the matter of his future guardianship into his own hands by attaching himself so lovingly to his master’s father that his decision was accepted without demur. Alas, Bruce never saw his master again, for old age and infirmities were upon him, and before another return from India the old dog had passed away.

It was characteristic of Bruce’s sense of the fitness of things that when he was too old to run with the carriage he still kept up the fiction of doing so. He would not give in to the disabilities entailed by his failing strength. He always greeted the arrival of the carriage at the front door with his old joyous excitement. When it started he rushed off bounding and barking as he had always done, but at a certain point in the road, not far from the end of the carriage drive, Bruce was seen to slip quietly through the hedge and disappear. When this point was reached on the return drive, out came Bruce, and trotted quietly home as if he had run with the carriage all the way.

Bruce’s constant habit during this last period of his life was to accompany his guardian, who was a clergyman, to the door of the church where the latter went for a daily morning service. When he came out, Bruce was waiting for him and trotted home in his company to breakfast. At last one morning Bruce was so weak and feeble that his guardian put him by his study fire before he left the house, and told the dog to wait there for him. Did Bruce feel the end was coming? Who can say, but in all his weakness he managed to crawl to his usual place by the church door, and was ready with a feeble welcome when his friend appeared. Carried back to the study fire, Bruce did not move again, but in the course of a few hours gave up his life. We may hope that no regrets for the absent master clouded the last moments of his waning powers.

THE PROFESSOR

_In Memoriam_

Lugete o pueri et genus togatum Et quaecumque canes amant puellae, Ille emortuus est canis fidelis, Huius deliciae scholae decusque, Qui vix inferior domus magistro Formabat pueros sagax Agelli. Ast omnes studio pari ciebat Praesens Marlburios favente cauda, Qui propellere vel manu volantem Vel saevis pedibus pilam studebant, Exemplo aut tacito coarguebat Si quem dedecuit piger veternus Nam raptas modo quattuor superbus Mala continuit pilas minore, Elatrans modo equum procax anhelum Morsu callidiore persecutus. At liberrimus usque sic vagari Per campum solitus viasque nostras, Indignans Anatis tulisse vincla Innexo laqueo miser peremptus Aeterno dominum obruit dolore.[1]

M.

Bandy, the friend and hero of three generations of Marlborough boys, was of the spirit of the age in which he lived. With a decorous respect for the sober business of the classrooms, it was in the playing fields that his prowess was displayed. Cricket was for him the absorbing interest from the early days of his puppyhood to the closing hours of his life. Football and hockey had a lesser place in his affections, and the Racquet Court came in occasionally for patronage. Of the School Rifle Corps he was an enthusiastic and exemplary member, and even illness would not keep him from his place in the corps, when the delights of a Field Day were in prospect.

In private life Bandy was a Dandie Dinmont, who came into the possession of the master of Littlefield, one of the Marlborough boarding houses, when he was only a few weeks old. As there were some fifty boys at Littlefield, and no other dog was kept in the house, Bandy was from the first thrown greatly into the society of humans, and throughout his life he always showed a preference for their companionship to that of those of his own kind.

Bandy made his first acquaintance with cricket in the summer term that followed his arrival at the school. His master, who used to coach at the cricket nets in the school playing field, was in the habit of taking the puppy with him and tying him up in full view of all that was going on. With growing interest Bandy watched the proceedings, and so well did he respond to his early training that the love of the game developed into a passion with him when he had come to years of discretion. He grew to be one of the most enthusiastic and untiring of fieldsmen, and for a long succession of summer terms he was seldom absent, morning or afternoon, from the Littlefield practice net. He generally stood in the long field, and would work himself to a state of complete exhaustion in retrieving the balls.

In this, his chosen work, Bandy showed a nice discrimination. He only worked for his own house. Balls hit from other nets might fly past him, or even roll to his feet, but of these he took no heed. His fielding was for those of his own house party, though he recognised the claims of the school nets reserved for the XI and XXII, and professional bowlers, and showed his recognition in a manner all his own. He himself was always up to time, and if his house contingent were late he would enter a protest against their slackness by taking his services for that hour to the aristocrats of the cricket field. Yet here the nets had drawbacks from Bandy’s point of view. Being longer and higher than the ordinary house nets, the ball was seldom hit outside them, and in consequence there was but little fielding to be done. But Bandy made the best of things. Taking no notice for the time being of his usual allies, he would stand behind the wicket of his chosen comrades, and leap at the balls, not yet past the bat, or as they struck the net. He would even venture inside and stand near in on the off, with eyes fixed, as a fieldsman’s should be, not on the bowler but on the bat.

This habit nearly brought Bandy’s career to an untimely end. The captain of the XI drove a ball low down on the off right, that came straight at him. Bandy watched its course without flinching, and met it full on his head. As he rolled over, the game was forgotten, and the players rushed to his assistance. As his master was coming on to the field he met the poor little sufferer being carried tenderly home. He was apparently dying. In a few hours, however, he rallied a little, and during the night so far recovered consciousness as to take some nourishment from the hands of a devoted nurse. He was still alive when his master went into school at 10 o’clock on the following morning, but it seemed scarcely possible that he could recover. Soon after twelve, when his owner went into the cricket field, an excited boy rushed up to him with the question, “Have you heard about Bandy, sir?” As there seemed only one possible reason for such a query, the master responded sadly with the one word, “Dead?” “Not a bit of it,” was the astounding answer, “he’s fielding inside the net.”

After this, life without a ball for Bandy was incomplete. Though a cricket ball was his first love, it was not by any means the only one. Any ball not in play he regarded as fair game. In the cricket season, as he sometimes strolled with seeming innocence about the field, he would search the pockets of any coat that had been thrown on the ground in the hope of finding the thing he loved so well. Or from the Fives or Racquet Court, he would carry off any spare balls he might come across, and stoutly maintain his right to them. His master was not infrequently met with a request from one of the suffering owners, “Please, sir, would you speak to Bandy? He has bagged my Fives balls.”

Sunday, a day that never appealed to Bandy, was that in which he often turned his attention to possible balls. In the summer he would spend hours quartering the fringe of long grass that surrounds the cricket grounds in which balls were often lost. If Bandy came across an old one, a useless “pudding,” he would proceed to gnaw it to pieces then and there, but if he found a new one he would straightway carry it to his master’s study, which he always regarded as his treasure-house.

That in the opinion of his Marlborough friends Bandy was “more than brute, if less than man,” the following school story will show. In this case, I fear, I cannot go quite so far as those who knew him better and whose faith in his powers was boundless. While Bandy was an interested spectator of a cricket match he would gradually get nearer and nearer to the scoring board, with the object, as his friends declared, of seeing how they had acquitted themselves. If when the numbers went up they showed that a boy had made a good innings, Bandy would sometimes walk down the steps from the pavilion to meet him, and accompany him back with applauding barks.

No wonder that with such belief in his powers Bandy was honoured by his friends in a way surely no little dog has ever been before. The Latin verse at the beginning of this chapter speaks for itself, it--and the translation--was written by Mr. F. B. Malin. From the pen of another friend, Mr. F. Bain, come the delightful lines:

IN MEMORY OF THE VALIANT LITTLE DOG, BANDY

Alas! and art thou really dead, Quaint, semi-human quadruped? And dost thou sit on Pluto’s coast, A pallid little bandy ghost; Gone, little friend, away from us, Compatriot now of Cerberus, And shall we never see thee more Barking about the Rifle Corps? And wilt thou never now explain Thy base attack on Mr. Swain? Shall the old nag now munch his meals, Nor feel thee biting at his heels? At football shalt thou ne’er be found, Snuffing at every inch of ground Along those touch-lines, where we know Thou found’st a mouse long years ago? Never in court shall we now pass Thy sturdy figure on the grass, Fives balls protruding from its jaws, And racquet balls between its paws. Never again shall we now meet Thee, Bandy, trotting down the street; See thee turn over on thy back, And, deep down in thy throat, alack! Behold, defended by thy grin, Our cricket ball, thou dog of sin! Who can forget the solemn way Thou mapped’st out thy every day? Thy daily round, thy common task, Furnished far more than most dogs ask. The cricket net, the football match, The racquet court, those hours thou’dst snatch, When masters are in cap and gown, To do thy duty by the town. Yet was there one day, Bandy, one day, When life was dull, and that was Sunday. No interest, poor dog, for thee, Had sermons or Divinity: Thou’dst no delight in Scripture facts, No joy in Gospels or in Acts: Thou setted’st small store by such things, As Apostolic journeyings. Ah! Bandy, if the Apostle Paul Had only been a cricket ball! Queer little dog, I see thee yet, Panting behind the cricket net: Thy every fibre quivering To touch that flying leathery thing, That sometimes lives, sometimes is dead, So wonderful and round and red! Those wistful little yellow eyes Glaring at balls that round them rise: Those bandy legs, those big, broad paws, Those smiling, comprehensive jaws: That lolling, red, protruding tongue, That plaintive yelp to heaven up-flung, Attesting plain as human speech How fain thou art the ball to reach. Mid languid forms that lounge and sprawl, And hardly deign to stop the ball, A pattern fieldsman--sight to stir The heart of every cricketer. And down among the ghosts, who knows, May flit dim forms of ghostly Pros; (For such as throw on grass may well Be doomed to bowl on Asphodel, With Rhadamanthus standing there, To see that every ball is fair.) While ghosts of gentler birth strike at A ghostly ball with ghostly bat. If so, a little ghost has set Himself behind that ghostly net, And leaps into the air to clutch The thing he loved on earth so much.

F. BAIN.

Some of the allusions in the above will unfold their meaning in the later events of Bandy’s life. A more charming appreciation of a dog’s life has, I think, never been written, for Matthew Arnold’s lines on Geist’s Grave are conceived in a different vein.

On one occasion it seemed that Bandy must be absent from one of his beloved cricket matches. He was in hospital, suffering from what the veterinary surgeon said was eczema,--in an ordinary dog it might perhaps have been called mange--but in any case Bandy was _hors de combat_ and in confinement. But Bandy throughout life had a well-grounded opinion that “stone walls do not a prison make,” and his master’s astonishment was great to see a dilapidated little figure strolling presently over the field to his accustomed place. His owner called out to the medical attendant to know what Bandy’s presence meant, and, to add to the quaintness of the incident, the reply came promptly in all good faith, “I don’t know, sir. _I_ never told him there was a match on.”

When health and strength were his, Bandy showed himself a rigid disciplinarian. While a cricket match was in progress there were various minor games going on in different parts of the field. Bandy’s attention was of course given exclusively to the major court, until a criminal proceeding on the part of a fox-terrier attracted him. A big hit from one of the lesser players carried the ball near the terrier, and before the out-field could get up the dog seized the ball between his teeth and bolted with it. None of the spectators within reach stopped him, but Bandy, who had seen the theft from his proud position on the eleven bank, dashed to the rescue. With a growl of mingled astonishment and indignation he flew after the culprit, whom he soon reached and pinned by the throat. He then stood sentry over the disgorged ball till the fieldsman came up and recovered it. Then Bandy, still bristling with disgust, slowly returned to his master’s side.

Football and hockey matches Bandy seemed to attend more from a sense of duty, than from any interest he felt in the play itself. He did not watch the game but, satisfied that by his presence he had shown a becoming respect for the occasion, he turned his attention to more interesting matters. He generally spent the time in patrolling touch-lines cut in the turf, for here he had once found and killed a mouse. Though the joy never came to him again in the same way, he lived in hope of further discoveries.

For the Racquet Court he had a modified affection, but for some time he made a regular appearance there. It was the habit of one of the masters who had retired, but still lived near at hand, to come to the school every Monday and Friday morning at twelve o’clock, to play racquets with the school pair. When he left his garden he always found Bandy waiting to walk back with him to the court. Such a nice perception of times and seasons had Bandy that he was never known to make a mistake either in the day or hour of the visit. From the gallery no play was visible for one of Bandy’s size, but he would stand there the hour through, listening to the rattle of the balls he could not see, with every nerve on stretch. There was, too, always the chance of a “skied” ball, but the waiting was long, and from time to time he would give relief to his pent-up feelings by a yell of approval or despair.

One of the many ways in which Bandy showed his appreciation of his recognised position in the school life was by joining any party he thought worthy of his company when they were being photographed. His sense of loyalty to his house was shown in the selection he made, and outside any gathering of his house members, nothing below Common Room was good enough for him. But even then Bandy’s sense of justice did not allow him to enjoy any honour that was refused to his friends. When the masters were forming up on the Bowling Green to be photographed, some one of the party drew attention to the fact that Bandy was not present to complete their number. But it was the summer term, the hour between twelve and one, when Bandy was busy fielding. This he could not miss, and so it seemed that he had cut the photograph. But Bandy was equal to the occasion. Just as the last arrangements had been made, a movement was observed among the interested crowd that on these occasions surrounds the door at the head of the garden steps. A small form slipped through, and Bandy, still panting from his labours at the nets, dashed over the grass and took up the most conspicuous place in the group.

In accordance with custom, a second photograph was asked for, and while the photographer was making his preparations and regrouping his subjects, Bandy disappeared with the same speed that had characterised his advent. But this time the calls of friendship were in his mind, and when he returned he brought two curs of low degree to share his honours with him. But while Bandy was an honoured associate, it was felt that the dignity of Common Room would suffer if his friends were permitted to join the group. The curs were consequently chased away with ignominy, Bandy sitting up meanwhile and watching the treatment meted out to them. He seemed to be considering the situation, and at the moment the cap was taken off, he rose and moving rapidly down the line left a blur on the plate that testified to his feelings on the subject. He then walked off triumphantly to rejoin his rejected friends.

For the second time Bandy nearly met his death on the playing field. A harmless horse, whose business in life it was to pull rollers and mowing machines, spent his leisure hours in grazing at large in the field. Whether it was that his stolid demeanour, or the placid enjoyment that marked his performance, irritated Bandy, certain it is that from one of these or some other equally sound causes he gave the harmless quadruped no peace. His great delight was to dance about just out of range, with short, sharp, most aggravating barks. This he would keep up till the horse moved on, or if all else failed he would try a snap at his heels. Such outrageous conduct was very properly resented, and the day of reckoning came at last. With a thud that sounded far and wide, the victim caught his tormentor full on the head and fairly laid him out. Once more Bandy was carried home to die, and the horse had peace for _one whole day_.

The great problem of Bandy’s life was how to carry three Fives balls in his mouth at once. One cricket ball, two Fives balls, or three racquet balls he could manage, but his ambition was to stow away three Fives balls. Over the successful carrying out of this he would spend hours when no more enticing occupation offered itself. As it was a serious business, in the accomplishment of which he must not run the risk of interruption, he would establish himself with his balls in a certain grass plot in the court, which Bandy knew well was out of bounds for all but him. Here his master has often watched him, with the three balls laid out before him. He would begin by stowing away one ball in either cheek, but with all his efforts he could not get the third in between. Then he would eject them, and with the funniest air of careful thought, turn the matter over in his mind. Starting again, he would put the first ball well down his throat and make heroic efforts to accommodate the other two. A less conscientious dog might have substituted a smaller racquet ball for the third trophy, but such was not Bandy’s way, and, alas, death overtook him before he found a solution to the puzzle.

Fond, however, as Bandy was of balls and games, he put duty first. It is almost a creed of Marlborough faith that Bandy never missed a turn out of the School Rifle Corps after he had enrolled himself in that body. As soon as the “Fall in” was sounded he would appear on the scene, and, taking up his position just out of reach of the heels and sword of the Commanding Officer, would do his best to emphasize each word of command. Whether this was quite popular with the C.O.’s is perhaps open to doubt, but here, as in all other details of school life, Bandy was a privileged person. As the corps passed out of court to the cricket field, he remained in attendance on the captain in case his services should be required. It was a red-letter day for Bandy when such an occasion presented itself.

As Bandy lived before the time of the South African War, more attention was paid to the march past than is usual now. It was seldom that a march past was not included in the afternoon’s drill. Here Bandy was at his best. No sooner was the word given than he would dash forward to the head of the band, and take up his post about ten paces in front. His important duty was to lead, and with head and tail up, and eyes front, he did it with becoming attention to details. When the band wheeled left, to take post and play the corps by, Bandy would wheel right, and, stationing himself in dignified manner at the feet of the Captain, would take the salute with him.

Here again Bandy showed his stern ideas of discipline. It was before the days of putties, and short leather gaiters were worn by the volunteers. Mr. Swain, the bandmaster, was apt to be forgetful of details, and one day as the corps, headed by the band, was marching into the field, the captain, from halfway along the column, called the attention of a sergeant to the fact that the bandmaster was without the regulation gaiters. Bandy, who was in his usual place by the captain’s side, showed his sense of outraged propriety by springing to the head of the column and seizing Mr. Swain by the ankle, in the place where the gaiters should have been. Whether he was not pleased with the way in which his attentions were received, or did not consider the punishment equal to the offence, Bandy did not let the matter rest here.

The band practices, held in the gymnasium, were gatherings that did not appeal to Bandy, and he was never known to make one of them. But on the practice that followed his disciplinary effort on the parade ground, Bandy made his way to the gymnasium and demanded, and of course received, admission. Without a second’s hesitation he made straight for the astonished instructor, and repeated his warning against laxity. The sufferer suddenly developed an agility on the horizontal bars that no one had suspected him of possessing. The strangest thing perhaps about the incident was that it is the only case in which the dog ever attacked a human.

On the eve of one Field Day poor Bandy was in hospital. On the Monday afternoon he had a tumour removed from his throat, and the corps paraded early on Tuesday morning. One “turn out” then he was bound to miss. But the corps had just fallen in when, as the first word of command rang out, there was a gasp heard. The faithful soldier had managed to escape, and had just enough strength to crawl to his usual place. Is it wonder that such heroism was duly recorded in verse? “Exit Bandy” testifies to the place he held in the affections of his friends. These lines, like the others I have quoted, were written after the dog’s death.

EXIT BANDY

A truce to all your games to-day, Put football, racquet-ball away, Not now the hour for sport and play, But sorrow sore instead. A friend has vanished from our view Whom all of our six hundred knew. O sad Six Hundred when to you The news came--“Bandy’s dead.”

Muffle your drums, O Volunteers; Your shrill notes soften to our ears, O Fifers; half a score of years He never missed a drill, But ever as your captain spoke “Fall in,” a bark the courtyard woke To tell to laggard human folk Their dog was punctual still.

He loved us all--would favour none-- The world his playmate; in the sun Or in the rain to romp and run His sole, his whole delight; Beneath his doleful brow was pent Indomitable merriment, To play with boy or man he meant All day with all his might.

Was ever cricketer more keen On our field, or on any seen? Though summer’s labour made him lean To him ’twas labour sweet; You hit the ball, he watched its course, And fast as any Manton horse Outpaced it ere it spent its force And laid it at your feet.

His voice would echo sharp and short From top tier of the Racquet Court As if he criticised the sort Of stroke you made or missed; So well he seemed to understand The tricks of every round he scanned You vowed him fit to take a hand (Or little paw) at whist.

In Hockey, Football less he found Of dog’s delight, though on the ground He oft would watch with gaze profound The fortunes of the game. And, maybe, mused, “My legs for kicks Were not devised or holding sticks, Else in the fray what fun to mix! This looking on is tame.”

Self-constituted sentinel Our school domain he guarded well; And woe to cur on whom he fell, Though twice his weight and size. Or, if too strong and big the brute, For timely aid of stone or boot, He begged us with petition mute, As due from sworn allies.

A blithe life--free from pain or ache Save when he made some quaint mistake; Once heedless how a ball would break It half beat out his brains. And once a-hunting he would go, And sliced by ploughshare ’neath the snow Samaritans had work to sew His outside in again.

Well, every dog must have his day, Even you, whose gaiety made gay Two generations, passed away Ere ours, whom Marlborough bred: And when was dog so mourned as you? Half sighs, half smiles, the wide world through Will blend in thousand-fold adieu When news comes--“Bandy’s dead.”

A. H. BEESLY.

Anything of the nature of a spectacle always had attractions for Bandy. Sunday was, as I have said, a dull time to him, for he was never allowed to follow his friends when they went into chapel. One day, when there was to be a confirmation in the school chapel, the sight of visitors and an unusual stir about the place attracted his attention. Soberly, as befitted the occasion, Bandy watched the crowd slowly pass into the chapel, and then retired to the Bradleian arches, to be ready for what might yet be in store. Scarcely had he settled down before there issued from the old house the Bishop and the Head Master, side by side, with crozier bearer in front. Bandy was instantly all attention. Was this a procession, within the meaning of the Act? Three was a small quorum, but then there were the robes. It _was_ a procession, and with a yell of joy that to his master’s ears told only too well what was happening outside, he flew to take part in it. A series of short, sharp barks that sounded like pistol shots in the quiet stillness of the chapel made the watchers inside sharers of the scene that disturbed the serenity of the embarrassed dignitaries. But one of the sufferers was a Bishop, and Bandy’s master’s diocesan, so we will draw a veil over the sequel.

It was on a Sunday that yet another great disaster nearly ended Bandy’s life. To relieve the tedium of the dull hours he went off in the afternoon to do a little ratting on his own account. What followed can only be surmised, but that night Bandy did not return. The next morning a blood-stained track was found leading from a rick on Granham Hill, and on a harrow at the foot of the rick were blood and hair. Bandy must have leaped or fallen from the rick, though how he reached the top must ever be a mystery. That day two boys saw him making a desperate effort to reach home. He was in a terrible condition, and without assistance must have died before he could find his friends. The boys, however, did what they could for him. They took him to a friendly saddler, who washed his wounds and sewed him up, and again he was carried home apparently in extremis. Once more he was tenderly nursed back to life, and within forty-eight hours he crept from his master’s house to the school gates, where his owner found him waiting for him, too feeble to travel further.

Though Bandy was no fighter in the sense that he sought an encounter, he never refused a good offer. He returned sometimes from his little private excursions more than a trifle mauled, but he never made any fuss about his wounds. Rats were ever a joy to him, mice came in for a lesser share of his attentions, and he would spend hours in desperate efforts to dig out a rabbit. There was no mistaking the language with which he would resent any intervention, even from his best friends, at such times. On the other hand he was always ready to acknowledge a really well-timed service.

As the Downs round Marlborough abound in hares, they were ever an attraction to Bandy, and he lived in hope of some day accounting for one. He had a good nose, and would sometimes stick to a stale line till the hare jumped up within a few feet of him. Then away he would go again, always running by scent and not by view. When nearly beat he would sometimes start another hare. “Good,” he seemed to say, “I knew I was getting up to her,” and with desperate determination he would carry on the chase. His master was often obliged to ride up at last and call him off, “faint, yet pursuing.”

Bandy once had a rude shock. He had gone out with one of her late Majesty’s judges, to dig out a badger in the Pewsey Vale, some seven miles off. The holt was in a sand-pit, and had two entrances or pipes. A dog was sent up one of them to mark the badger, and behind the dog a man worked with a short pick, passing the sand out behind him. At the same time another man was told off to crawl up the other pipe and report progress. It was a pouring wet day, and just as Bandy’s master arrived on the scene the second man emerged backwards from his pipe. In a moment the judge’s coat was off, and in spite of all remonstrances he insisted on taking his turn, and slowly disappeared. The whole proceedings were a mystery to Bandy, and he watched attentively. No sooner did the judge reappear from the bowels of the earth than Bandy dashed in to solve the mystery for himself. His curiosity was quickly satisfied. Instead of a rabbit he found a badger at bay, and in this case he decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

It was only comparatively late in life that Bandy turned his thoughts seriously to education. Then for some time he attended his master’s lessons regularly, and never was there a more attentive pupil. When the blackboard was being used he would come out and sit in full view of it, and never take his eyes off till the chalk was laid down. For two terms he took up science, but he had the sense to limit his range of study, and only attended a class that was held twice a week. He never mistook the day and hour, and always made a point of escorting the master who was to give the lesson from his rooms to the laboratory.

Occupied as he was, Bandy yet found time for social duties. For some years he always paid one visit every term with unfailing precision. The master who was thus honoured was not conscious of any special claim to such distinction. He lived in rooms at the top of two flights of uncarpeted stairs, and regularly once a term he would hear what sounded like a human step coming slowly up, so self-repressed was Bandy when occasion required. Then would come a tap low down on the door, and in would walk the courteous visitor. The call would pass with no more incident than other visits of ceremony, and after a stroll round the room and a lounge before the fire Bandy would rise, make his bow, and walk downstairs with the same dignified restraint that had marked his approach.

It is as a public character that Bandy’s memory lives. The incidents of his private life were few. Though devoted to his master, and with a full sense of the claims of his house fellows upon his time and affections, he was not a demonstrative dog. The only times in which he was wont to display an exuberance of joy, was when his master returned home after the holidays. Then he would go nearly mad with joy, and testify to his delight with no thought for the restraining hand of decorum. If his master was laid aside by illness or accident, Bandy, who at other times did not frequent his bedroom, would always go up, and jumping on the bed, give the special mark of sympathy that the occasion demanded. But Bandy’s powers did not lie in the direction of sick-room nursing. His was only a visit of condolence. He was satisfied that others could look after his master better than he could, and he would go off to one of his many school duties, safe in the confidence that the invalid would be well cared for.

It seems almost sacrilege to speak of such a dog as Bandy being thrashed, but such ill luck has been the portion of other and greater lights of Marlborough, so I may take courage to say that twice such ignominy fell on Bandy. The first time his master felt called on to administer condign punishment was for the crime of chasing sheep on the Downs. The lesson was remembered, and the offence was never repeated.

On the second occasion Bandy resented the treatment meted out to him and took his means of retaliation. It was a prize day, and he wished to share in the unwonted stir and movement that promised untold joys. But his master decided otherwise, and sent him sternly home. From the order there was no appeal. Sadly Bandy turned from promised joys, and meditated vengeance in his heart. Going straight back to the dining room he forthwith jumped on the table, and finding there among other dainties a cold duck, he determined to relieve the tedium of his banishment by a feast. So he devoured the duck in comfort on the floor, and then waited on the doorstep for his master’s return. When the latter came in Bandy led the way to the dining room, and conducted his master to the remains of his repast. It was not to be supposed that a free member of the school could be shut out from one of its great functions with impunity.

Bandy was always keenly sensitive to ridicule. It was a favourite amusement of his to watch the matron dispense the various medicines to the boys. Curled up in her chair, he would follow the proceedings with interest. One of the boys in teasing mood came and stood in front of him, and laughed derisively. Bandy showed his sense of the insult offered him by immediately leaving the room and taking refuge in his master’s study. Two years later this boy came down to see the senior master, and as soon as Bandy heard his step outside he made good his escape from the room. As soon as the boy entered, his master knew the cause of Bandy’s hurried departure.

Once again Bandy was in hospital, and the very care his friends took of him proved his undoing. No one had mastered the secret of his former escapes from confinement, and to make all sure, Bandy was chained up and left for the night. Alas, the next morning, which by a strange coincidence was his master’s birthday, a sad sight met the eyes of his guardians. Bandy, unable to support the indignity of loss of liberty, had strangled himself in mad efforts to escape. There lay his little lifeless form, and grief reigned in Marlborough for the loss of the good comrade and faithful friend, who for ten long years had been a privileged member of the school body.

Yet another friend was moved to verse in his sorrow for his loss.

BANDY

Bandy dead, and such a death! Sure it makes the heart beat faster, That he rather strove to die Than be parted from his master.

Countless risks to limb and life (As I write my spirits falter) He had weathered; and the end-- Self-destruction with a halter!

Bandy! When from lip to lip Spread that dismal bit of knowledge, More than grief for loss of brute Dimmed the gladness of the college.

How shall we supply the place Vacant by his sad disaster? Self-appointed, Bandy long Held the post of Extra Master.

See him watch behind the nets, Cerberus-toothed, and Lynceus-sighted; See him scampering o’er the grass, Coach and fag in one united.

See him, close inspection o’er, Column formed, and bugles blowing, Head the Corps, and through the gates Trot, the way to glory showing.

In the field, the court, the road, Barking, bossing had you seen him, _Nil humani_, you had said, Was to Bandy _alienum_.

Never, rare in man! _de trop_, Ever on occasion handy; Boys and Masters courage take From the energy of Bandy!

More than brute, if less than man, Far beyond all canine measure, Sharing, conscious of his worth, Human business and pleasure.

Mystery strange of brutish soul! Beamed from out those doggy features; More of sympathy for man Than his nearer fellow creatures.

Lived throughout that grizzly frame Iron purpose past our guiding; Wisdom hoar that mocked our search Deep in those weird eyes abiding.

Where is Bandy’s spirit fled? What forbids this hope to cherish, Wit so keen, and love so strong, Are not of the things that perish?

X. A. M.

THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

“_Here’s fine sport, my masters!_”

Jack, who belonged to the old breed of fighting dogs, had all the characteristics that marked the better class of those worthies of a bygone age who were known as soldiers of fortune. Brave as a lion, he would fight to the death, but he was gentle and courteous to those in distress, loyal to his friends, and an open enemy. It was strange, indeed, that with his early training he had not learned to love fighting for fighting’s sake. But as he never began an attack, and never lost his head even in the most heated moments of a deadly struggle, he had the advantage of a soldier trained to warfare over less well disciplined opponents. Jack’s enormous strength of jaw and his size--for in fighting condition he was said to weigh fifty pounds--made him a formidable antagonist. But in spite of this, and of his truly ferocious appearance, he was gentle and affectionate in disposition, was on the most friendly terms with every one in the house, where he found a home after the stormy days of his youth, and was never known to start a quarrel with one of his own kind.

His meeting with his future mistress was sufficiently dramatic. This lady was calling at a vicarage in the neighbourhood of her home when, as she reached the front door, she found herself confronted by a remarkable looking object. Seated on the doorstep was a large, grey, brindled bull terrier, with the square massive head of the bulldog, and in general appearance resembling the pictures of Crib and Rosa and other old-world celebrities. To add to his attractions he had lost half an ear on one side of his face and half of his upper lip on the other. His head was covered with wounds not yet healed, and his neck had been severely mauled recently.

The visitor stood still in astonishment, while she examined him attentively, and Jack on his side kept his place in the middle of the doorway, and returned her gaze, while he slowly turned his head from side to side. Happily the lady does not know what fear is where a dog is concerned, and as soon as she had recovered from her surprise she spoke to the dog in a gentle voice. Jack then rose and came towards her, and after walking round her and sniffing at her skirt he looked up at her and allowed her to pat his head. From that moment his friendship with the stranger began, though there were still some vicissitudes of his strange career to be gone through before he came into her possession.

Inside the house the visitor heard something of his story. Jack had been brought home by the son of the house, who was an undergraduate of Cambridge, and he had become possessed of him under peculiar and, we may hope, unusual circumstances. A fellow undergraduate had purchased Jack from a man who had brought him down from the Staffordshire Potteries, where the bull terrier had a great reputation as a fighting dog. Many were the tales told of his prowess in deadly combats, in which he had come off with the honours of war. These brutal exhibitions though contrary to law are not yet done away with in mining districts, and that other parts of the country are not free from suspicion in this respect Jack’s history will make clear. It would be well if the authorities showed more vigour in putting them down, as they are a disgrace to our boasted humanity and refinement of feeling. It is hard to see how the gruesome sight of dogs deliberately set to maul one another until the life of one is forfeited, lacks any of the brutal elements that have made cock fighting happily a thing of the past.

Unfortunately for poor Jack the hands into which he fell at Cambridge were no more humane than those of his former owners. At a “wine” his new master produced him, and challenged his friends present to find a dog that could “lick” him. Another wild spirit took up the challenge, declaring that his Newfoundland, an unusually large and strong specimen of his breed, could easily give the Staffordshire hero a licking. Bets were made freely, and the furniture was cleared, while the Newfoundland was being fetched. Then the wretched animals were set on, and for a time their struggle was watched by the inhuman men. But the fight grew so savage that the infuriated animals became a danger to the onlookers, and the party put the crowning point to their cowardly proceeding by clearing out of the room and shutting the door on the combatants. It was not till the sounds of fighting had died away that they ventured back to see what had happened to their victims. The Newfoundland had been killed, and Jack was lying half dead beside him.

Fear of the consequences of their exploit to themselves now entered the young men’s minds. If Jack was kept, the Dons would be sure to hear of the affair, and as one of the party was going down the following day, he was persuaded to take the dog with him. The suffering creature was consequently put into a basket and carried down to the Dorset Vicarage, where he was by no means a welcome guest. The Vicar not unnaturally thought that he was not a reputable addition to his household. But the dog could not be turned away till his wounds were healed, and Jack found a home in an outhouse, from which he had made his escape on the day of my friend’s visit.

The lady had no sooner heard his history than she expressed a wish to have him. But the Vicar refused point blank to allow him to go to her, and his son told her privately that he meant to keep the dog. On returning from a short absence from home the would-be owner made inquiries about Jack, and what she then heard determined her to make every effort to get possession of the dog, and thus put an end to his fighting career.

Jack’s presence at the Vicarage had not been pleasing to an old retriever, who was used to ruling supreme on the premises. Before long a fight ensued between the rivals, and the Vicar, hearing sounds of warfare, rushed out to find matters looking serious. Seizing the retriever by the tail he called loudly for assistance. This brought Jack’s master on the scene, and with considerable difficulty he succeeded in getting his dog by the collar and choking him off. From the fiat of banishment that now went forth there was no appeal, the somewhat undignified part played by the master of the house perhaps adding fuel to his wrath. Anyway, Jack was made over to a travelling pedlar, who passed through the village the following day.

This man had a large white bull terrier of his own, which, he said, he kept to guard his cart. With the same brutal instincts displayed by Jack’s former owners the pedlar determined on a fight between the dogs. For the benefit of himself and his friends the entertainment was brought off in a back yard. So desperately did the dogs fight that to save their lives the men at last separated them. Too late, however, to save the life of the white dog, which died of its wounds, while Jack was in a dreadful condition, and it seemed doubtful if he would recover.

My friend found out where the dog was, and sent the Vicar’s son, who had brought him into the neighbourhood, to buy the poor suffering creature for her. The embassy was successful, and Jack, the most miserable remnant of a dog that ever was seen, and with his neck in such a state that it was months before he could bear a collar, came to the home that sheltered him for the remainder of his days.

Jack’s adventures were by no means over, but he was too intelligent ever to enter on a struggle lightly. He knew what fighting meant, and did not run into danger needlessly. What to others was a mere incident in their quarrelsome lives was for him a matter in which the science of war and the risks of battle had to be considered. These fighting dogs are trained never to let go of their opponent till they have a firm grip of the head, and then, from the working of their terrible jaws, there is little hope for the victim. The dog that fastens on to the leg of his opponent is not accounted much good, as, though he may break the bone and cause terrible agony, he is not likely to succeed in killing the other. The brutalising effect of such contests as those in which Jack had taken part seems to be shown more clearly on the men who organise them than on the animals they train. This is, at least, as it should be, for it is man’s superior intelligence that is perverted to provide the so-called sport, while the dogs are but the puppets made to dance at his orders.

Jack’s appearance always remained sufficiently alarming to terrify weak nerves. In his new home he used to spend long hours lying on a mat in the front hall, and always did so of an afternoon unless he was out driving with his mistress. He was in his usual place when two ladies arrived to tea. One of the visitors stepped out of the carriage to ring the bell, and this, being almost over Jack’s head, awoke him with a start. The dog sprang to his feet with a growl, and his unexpected appearance struck such terror into the heart of the visitor that she fled back to the brougham for protection. Her companion, an older lady, just then in the act of stepping out, received her friend’s onslaught with no hope of withstanding the shock. She was knocked backwards on to the floor of the brougham, where the fugitive tumbled on the top of her, Jack meanwhile watching the unwonted proceedings with interest, but without showing the least sign of wishing to join in the fray. When the visitors had been safely escorted into the house, and the elder lady understood the cause of her friend’s fright, her anger was great. How could any one suppose that a dangerous dog would be allowed to lie at the front door? she inquired. But the other who could not be persuaded to allow Jack to come near her, or indeed to be in the same room with her, asserted that his look was enough to frighten any one, and if he came near her _she should do the same again_.

But Jack behaved with exemplary courtesy to all visitors to the house, and to his mistress he was devotedly attached. This love he only extended in anything like the same degree to one person, and that was his mistress’s mother. He always had a special welcome for her when she made one of her occasional visits to the house, and constituted himself her guardian, seeming to understand perfectly that as she had nearly lost her sight she needed protection. Whenever his mistress was out, if Jack did not go with her, he would go straight up to her mother’s room and sit by her side, and no one could induce him to move till his mistress returned. His affection and care were much appreciated, and Jack and the elder lady became the firmest friends. She was in the habit of taking a little stroll in the afternoon along the carriage drive, and with Jack for a companion she said she felt perfectly safe. He always walked close by her side, and to give her warning when any one was coming, he would look up at her and give a little friendly growl.

To his mistress he was the most vigilant of guards, and his encounter with a tramp was talked of far and wide in the county. For some time the cottagers in the neighbourhood had been troubled by the visits of this man. It was his custom to watch the men off to work, and then go and bully the women until he got money from them. One spring morning, when Jack’s owner was sitting in the drawing room with the window open, a shadow cast across her book caused her to look up. She saw a short, sturdily built man of the dirtiest possible appearance in the act of stepping into the room from the verandah. She realised at once that it was the tramp, from the descriptions she had heard from some of his former victims. She knew, too, that he must have watched the house and chosen his time as usual when the men were absent. Probably from the shelter of the shrubbery he had seen the two gentlemen of the household drive away in the dog-cart, and had waited until the outside men had gone home for their dinner. The only man left about the place was the butler, who was on the far side of the house.

Starting from her chair the lady asked the intruder what he wanted. “I want some money,” was the surly response. “I have nothing for you;” and as she spoke she made a step towards the bell. But the man was too quick for her. Flinging himself before her, and thus cutting her off from the power of summoning assistance, he said threateningly, “I means to have some before I goes.” His startled victim looked round hastily for a weapon of defence, as her doubtful visitor held a short thick stick in his hand, which he looked quite capable of making use of to achieve his object. Her eye fell upon Jack asleep under a chair in the back room. Clapping her hands to rouse him, she called, “Go for him, Jack,” and the dog sprang to his feet, and with a savage growl made straight for the man. In an instant the intruder was back on the verandah, striking blindly at the dog with his stick. Jack was not to be caught, and cleverly dodging the blows aimed at him he danced round with every bristle up and his eyes glaring.

The man backed away along the verandah shouting at the top of his voice, Jack after him, and his mistress following and encouraging the dog. In this way the procession worked round the house till it reached the garden gate. Here the man turned and tried to bolt through, but Jack was on the watch, and instantly making his spring, he fastened on to the man’s thigh and hung like grim death. Never was there a more abject picture of fright than the tramp presented. He roared with pain and fear combined, and throwing away his stick made frantic efforts to get his hand into his pocket. Seeing the movement, and fearing that a knife might be brought into play against Jack, his mistress caught the dog by the collar, exclaiming as she did so, “I will try and get him off, if you will be quiet.” This was no easy matter, for Jack’s blood was up, but luckily there was a wrench, and with a piece of dirty, rotten cloth in his mouth the dog fell back. It was the work of a moment for the tramp to bang to the gate between him and his assailant. By the time the household came hurrying up to see what was the matter the man was making best pace down the drive, and was never heard of in that neighbourhood again.

It is to be noted that even in his angriest moments Jack never resented his mistress’s efforts to check him. Neither now nor at any period of his life, however great the provocation, did he turn upon her. As he understood and was ready to respond to her call for aid, so he respected her restraining hand, even though, like an angry child, he could not give in to the restraint at once.

On one evening in the week my friend was in the habit of walking across the fields to the village in order to play the organ for the choir practice. Jack always accompanied her, and as long as it was light he followed close at her heels. Directly it grew dark Jack invariably changed his position and trotted along in front of her. He then gave notice of any one approaching by a warning growl, and if the passer by ceded the path to him all went well, and he took no further notice. If, however, the intruder kept to the path, things were not made so pleasant for him. One very dark night Jack’s mistress heard the warning growl, and then a quick rush, and a man’s voice raised in alarm. Hurrying to the rescue she saw, as well as the darkness would allow, what appeared to be a man on the ground and a dog on the top of him. Seizing Jack by the collar she found it an unexpectedly easy task to pull him off, as whatever it was that he had firmly in his teeth came away with him. The man struggled to his feet and fled for dear life, and it then turned out that Jack’s trophy was a large bundle done up in a red handkerchief, and with a stick through it, which the man had evidently been carrying over his shoulder. Holding Jack firmly his mistress called to the fugitive that he might come back safely and secure his property. But he would have none of it, and continued his headlong course, while Jack and his mistress reached home without further adventure.

Another of Jack’s exploits was in saving her from the attack of a savage cow. A farmer in the parish had put a cow and her calf in a field, through which ran a path that led into the village. Through this field the Vicar’s daughter had come one afternoon to see Jack’s owner, bringing her old retriever with her. On her return she was charged by the cow, and in her efforts to escape fell into a deep ditch. The retriever meantime flew at the cow, but finding himself hard pressed, jumped after his mistress, who in her fright thought her infuriated assailant had come after her. She and her dog eventually managed to scramble through the hedge into the next field, and found their way home. Knowing that the lady on whom she had been calling would be coming down later to the practice, she sent a note to warn her of the danger. But the messenger wisely preferred to go the longer way by the road, and he thus missed the lady, who with Jack had already started across the fields. On getting over a stile she found herself face to face with a large half-bred Hereford cow, which without the slightest warning rushed straight at her. Springing to one side she left the way open to Jack, who proved quite equal to the encounter. Jumping at the cow’s head, he caught her firmly by the nose and there hung. It was now the cow’s turn to try and get away, and she rushed round and round in a circle, swinging the clinging dog completely off the ground. All her efforts being of no avail, she sank at last on her knees and laid groaning on the ground. Just then the farmer appeared, and with his help the cow was released, and Jack was then hurried away. The cow recovered from her fright, and was none the worse for her adventure, but she was promptly removed to a quieter grazing ground.

One of Jack’s pleasures was to accompany his mistress in her drives. He always ran under the dog-cart, and if pursued by other dogs would never take any notice of them for fear of losing the cart. His mistress therefore always drove on when any assailant appeared, as she knew Jack would not leave her. This proof of attachment sometimes cost him dear, as his enemies were wont to think that his flying figure meant fear, and that they could bully him as they pleased. This was specially the case with a large collie who lived in a neighbouring town to which Jack and his mistress often went. The collie had a habit of rushing after any dog following a carriage, and his great speed generally allowing him to come up with them, he would then roll them over and, after shaking and biting them, run back to his master as if sure of approval. This was indeed more or less true, for the master, whenever he was remonstrated with on the behaviour of his dog, always replied that he meant no harm and only acted in play.

After a time the owner of the collie set up a second, a younger dog, who, of course, speedily followed in the steps of his elder. The two dogs once rushed on Jack, as he was passing in his usual place under the cart, and gave him a severe mauling. After that his mistress always took him up when they were likely to meet his enemies, and one day when she went into a shop she fastened a piece of string to Jack’s collar and led him. She had just reached the shop door when she saw the older collie rushing towards them. Turning in hastily to avoid him, Jack lay down quietly beside her chair, but the collie rushed in and fell upon Jack, and with a snap of the string from the latter’s collar, the two were fighting in the street. For the first few minutes the collie seemed to have the best of it, for he pinned Jack and was tearing at him with all his strength. The lady and gentleman, in whose charge the collie was at the time, seemed rather amused at the adventure, and did not offer to interfere, while Jack’s mistress, knowing that his turn would come, and thinking the attacker deserved a lesson, remained passive.

Presently the collie, who thought he was going to have things entirely his own way, recklessly put his foreleg across Jack’s open mouth. The powerful jaws closed on it, and the collie, releasing his hold of Jack’s throat, howled loudly, while he tried in vain to pull his leg away.

Jack, however, was no leg fighter, and struggling to his feet he released the leg, and, catching the collie by the side of the head, turned him over on his back. The collie’s guardians now wished to interfere, the lady calling out to her companion to save her dog. The man raised his walking stick and was in the act of bringing it down on Jack’s head, when the latter’s mistress interfered. Fortunately she had brought a walking stick in her hand when she left the dog-cart, and striking up the threatening stick of the other, she exclaimed, “He shall not be touched.” But seeing that the collie would soon suffer the extreme penalty of the law unless rescued, she seized Jack by the collar and told him to leave go. His mistress always says she can never forget the look of reproach her dog turned on her. Lowering his bristles and wagging his tail Jack fixed his eyes on her face with an expression that was almost human. His look said as plainly as words, “What a shame to baulk me of my vengeance, now that I have at last got my chance.” Nevertheless, he let go his hold, and the tattered collie was led away. After this the collie was always put on a lead when he was taken into the town. Jack once met him when he was being led, and the way in which he showed that a dog who was not free was not worthy of his notice was very funny. Jack raised his head and stared at the collie for a moment and then passed on with contempt written in his bearing, while the other, with lowered tail and scared look, showed relief at getting by unnoticed.

At home Jack had a rival in the form of a black, curly coated retriever, named Bob. This dog showed his jealousy by falling on Jack whenever he found an opportunity, and their contests were endless. Bob, however, was not a fighting dog, and as soon as the struggle reached a certain point he stopped. Jack, who looked on Bob as an amateur unworthy of his serious attention, always stopped as soon as the other did, and never offered to renew the fight. The two dogs often went with their mistress when she was riding, as Bob had no time for quarrelling when he was following the horse. But when the rider was opening a gate on a river bank, in order to cross by the ford, the gate swung back on Jack, who always followed close at her horse’s heels. While he was struggling to force his way through, Bob took the opportunity of falling on him. Their mistress jumped from her horse to separate them, and as they were now fighting on the top of the bank she rolled them over into the water. With a great splash they disappeared, but Bob, who was first to come to the surface, was none the worse for his ducking, and swimming a little way down stream soon found an easy landing place. Jack was not so fortunate, for being a much heavier dog he had a deeper fall, and when he came up he was covered with mud. He seemed, too, slightly dazed, and instead of following Bob’s example he tried to scramble up the high bank close to him. Time after time he fell back, and his mistress, fearing lest he should be drowned, lay down on the bank and, reaching over, tried to get hold of his collar.

Bob, meantime, sat and watched the proceeding, and seeing his mistress’s ineffectual efforts he jumped into the water and, seizing Jack by the collar, towed him down to the landing place and then, scrambling up backwards, tried to drag Jack after him. His owner rushed to his assistance, and by their united efforts Jack was pulled up, and in a few minutes the two dogs were trotting on amicably together.

Their last encounter was a bad one for their mistress. It was a hot summer day, and she had taken a book into the garden and settled herself under the shade of a tree with Jack by her side. After a time she fell asleep, and was awakened by a weight on her chest that threatened to suffocate her. A loud worrying saluted her ears, and to her horror she found that Bob and Jack were having a scrimmage on the top of her prostrate form. Struggling hard to release herself, she at last slipped from under them, and the dogs continued their combat on the ground. It was one of the worst fights they ever had, for Jack meant business, so that Bob was glad at last to be carried away. After this Bob found another home, but he neither forgot nor forgave his old enemy and was always ready for a row whenever they met.

One of Jack’s great amusements was boxing with his mistress’s brother. The latter, putting on his boxing gloves, used to go down on his knee, while Jack stood opposite him, all attention for the signal to begin. Jack’s aim was to get a hold of one of the gloves, while his opponent tried to keep him out by bowling him over. Jack was often rolled head over heels by a well directed blow, but in the end he always got a grip of one of the gloves, which he was allowed to carry off in triumph. Though he used to get wildly excited over the performance he was not savage. He wagged his tail the whole time as a sign of good fellowship, and quite understood that it was only a pastime, and not to be considered as one of the serious duties of life.

In his older days Jack was very fond of lying in front of the kitchen fire. This place he shared with a large white cat named Muff, and very funny it was to see the two strangely assorted creatures lying curled up side by side. Nothing would move Jack from his place. If the fire became too hot he would stay till his coat was actually scorched, only showing his discomfort by an angry growl. This always upset Muff, who on hearing the noise would fall on him, and was of course punished for his insolence, till the cook, whose pet he was, rushed to his rescue. In one of these scrimmages Muff got such a sharp squeeze from his powerful enemy that in terror he made a spring at a high window, trying to escape. Instead, however, of getting through he came against the blind which was partly down. To this he clung, and his weight being twelve pounds brought down the roller, which with the cat still clinging to his perch, fell with a clatter into the midst of plates and dishes, making a noise that raised the whole household. Jack and Muff being equally startled with the unexpected result of their conflict, fled for their lives, leaving the cook a sadder and a wiser woman.

It was in front of the kitchen fire that Jack’s adventurous life came to an end. We may fancy what dreams of past exploits came to soothe the days of failing powers, when the worn-out warrior knew that his work was done. With the scars of many conflicts and the respectful sympathy of friend and foe alike, Jack found his last resting-place in the shrubbery of his home, facing the door near which he used to lie.

THE ARTISTIC THIEF

“_They also know And reason not contemptibly._”

Jet, in appearance and character, had a distinction all his own. That the latter was due to a subtle cleverness which frequently led him from the paths of virtue did not prevent his being in private life a dog of high moral character. He never condescended to petty thieving, but when an occasion presented itself that he felt was worthy of his powers, Jet threw himself into it with all the enthusiasm of a true artist.

He was a King Charles spaniel of a type now unknown, and was believed to be the last specimen of his kind. He was coal black from tip to tail, and had lovely blue-black eyes that completed the duskiness of his appearance. His head was not so short as the present fashion demands, though it was shorter than those painted by Landseer, or portrayed by the eighteenth-century artists.

As a puppy he was too leggy for perfect beauty, but there was no evidence of this when he thickened out, and had grown a silky coat that swept the ground, from the tip of his undocked feathery tail to his ears. The latter were of extraordinary length, and would tie easily over his mouth--in a bow his family declared, but certainly in a love knot. When he was six months old, he came from his home in the Isle of Wight into the possession of one of the family, with some member of which he spent the remainder of his life.

While his master, who was a curate, was still living at home, Jet started on the career that made him famous. Belonging to another member of the family was a Blenheim puppy, of the kind now known as a Ruby. Both the mites were fond of Pearl biscuits, and these were bought for them in small quantities, as they did not come within the scope of the lawful housekeeping arrangements. The little fat Peter was more than once found busily engaged on the floor with a bag of his favourite dainties, though this had been put well out of his reach, and his size and shape forbade the idea of his having fetched it down. But one day when the dining-room door was standing half open, Jet was seen to jump on to the sideboard, shake and break the bag of biscuits, and, after securing what he wanted for himself, push the lightened bag down to the waiting Peter. At the first movement of the door Jet flew from his perch, and by the time the visitor was in the room he was sitting in a corner looking a model of innocence and ignorance. Peter, meanwhile, ate hard, while there was still time, but _his_ lapses from virtue were explained.

Before long Jet accompanied his master to a Midland town, where the latter had rooms over a grocer’s shop. He speedily made himself at home there, and was a favourite with every one in the house. A trick of his puppyhood, not yet got rid of, was the love of tearing books to pieces. Many times Jet was corrected for this crime, but when a book lying on his master’s writing-table disappeared bodily he was not even suspected. Not a sign of torn leaves pointed to his indulgence in a forbidden pleasure. It was not till his master left the rooms a year later that Jet’s delinquency was made clear. When a heavy set of bookshelves was moved from its place, there, pushed carefully from view behind them, lay the remains of the missing book. Every leaf was torn, and it was evident that during some prolonged absence from home of his owner Jet had had a long day’s enjoyment with them. That he had managed to clear away every sign of the fragments said not a little for the intelligence he had brought to bear on the matter. But this artistic finish to his work was what made Jet a leader in his line.

There was trouble for the mistress of the house soon after Jet took up his abode there. In her shop there were various trays of eggs, each with its appropriate label. Some were marked “Real Fresh Laid,” and only those in the mistress’s confidence knew that another place must be sought for eggs that actually deserved this title. But from the latter store one or more eggs disappeared daily. No one but those in the house could go with such unfailing certainty to the choicest store. Many were the conjectures, and suspicion at last fell on a maid-servant. But the mistress one day felt an obstruction under a door mat, and lifting the mat she saw a collection of egg-shells that gave her the clew to the thief. Jet was undoubtedly the culprit, though how he had managed to get at the contents of the egg-tray remained a mystery. The maid’s character was cleared of suspicion, though it was pointed out to her with some force that she had only her own slovenly habits of cleaning to thank for having been suspected.

Jet at this time was a very independent little dog, as he was left to his own devices while his master was engaged in the parish. Being of a friendly disposition, he made many acquaintances among his fellows, his chosen friend being a large spaniel, who lived in the yard of Jet’s home. This spaniel was fastened up during the day to act as guardian to the shop, and it was not till business hours were over that he was let loose and allowed to rove at liberty. One day Jet had what might well have been a serious encounter in the streets with a large mongrel, and it was only the little thing’s nimbleness that saved him from the chastisement the other was anxious to inflict. Jet’s master was absent from home, so the dusky mite took refuge with his friend the spaniel, whose house he refused to leave for the remainder of the day.

What was it that passed between the two dogs in those long hours they spent together, before the time of relief for the larger one came? It is a case in which we feel we would give much to be able to pierce the unknown nature of their communications. As soon as the spaniel was unfastened, he and Jet were seen to start off at once on an expedition that looked like business. There was no aimless roving or barking. Jet led the way, and his big friend followed. After some search they came upon the mongrel, and without the slightest sign of hesitation the spaniel made for him and proceeded to business. Jet meantime sat down quietly on the pavement and awaited developments. The spaniel’s size was in his favour, and he managed in the end to drive the enemy off the field. As soon as this was done Jet joined him, and the two trotted quietly back together. That the story of the mornings adventures had by some means been conveyed by Jet to his friend, it seems scarcely possible to doubt in view of their subsequent action.

Jet’s next change of residence took him back to the family house in town, where he met his future mistress. He attached himself to her from the first, and always remained devoted to her. Yet with this one exception Jet’s greatest friend throughout life was himself. He showed his capacity for affection in the strong and deep attachment he displayed to his mistress, but outside this he was a self-centred little epicurean, to whom personal comfort and the good things of this life were of paramount importance. He showed a gentlemanly regard for all members of the family, and was very popular with the servants. The latter always spoke of him as “Little Master Jet,” for the custom begun in jest soon grew into a habit. “Shall I take out little Master Jet?” or “What will little Master Jet have for dinner?” came to be regarded as a matter of course in speaking of him.

When the time came for Jet’s lawful owner to leave home, there was trouble with the determined little spaniel. He clung resolutely to the mistress he had chosen, and no bribes would draw him from her side. Even his favourite dainties had no charm for him, when their enjoyment meant leaving the shelter he had taken up. Finally the schoolroom party, of which Jet’s friend was the eldest member, clubbed their money together and bought him at his original price. The rules in the house were stringent about pets, but Jet, finding the hours long when his mistress was at lessons, refused to be bound by them. He even made good his place in the drawing room, sacred to the elders. Here he one day found his owner’s grandmother in tears on her couch. Springing up to her, he expressed his sympathy with rose-leaf tongue and silky paws in such dainty fashion that from that moment his position was assured.

No dog ever had a stronger sense of fun than Jet. He dearly loved a practical joke, and showed the nicest discrimination in the choice of the pranks he played on the different members of the household. He was a capital jumper, and very quick in his movements, and no sooner did he see one of his older friends lean forward in his chair in the excitement of conversation than a rapid spring would carry him into the space behind the speaker. The instant he had accomplished this he would to all appearance fall into such a ridiculously sound slumber that he was deaf to all blandishments addressed to him. But no sooner had he been lifted from his perch than he was as wide awake as ever, and evidently well pleased with the successful carrying out of his coup.

The trick for the younger ones was of a different nature, as it was no fun to usurp a place that was instantly ceded to him. A tiny scratch at the door would demand admission to the schoolroom, but when it was thrown open for him, there was no Jet to be seen. A few minutes later the same signal would be made, and always with the same result. His dusky colour and his rapid movements aided him in his flight, but if his victim waited inside the door to catch him, not a sound would be heard until she had resumed her seat. At last Jet’s excitement could no longer be controlled, and a bark from his place of concealment would betray his presence. These tricks were entirely of his own devising, but his young owners soon taught him the usual accomplishments, and he would beg or trust to order. But he was sometimes called upon for his performances when he did not feel inclined for them. Then no power on earth would move him. It was no uncommon sight for one of his young instructors to be on her knees, scolding and propping Jet up, in the vain hope of getting a regulation beg from him. Time after time Jet would fall a little backboneless heap on the floor, really a much better piece of acting than the stereotyped trick he was asked for.

His walks on the chain, with his mistress in town, were a model of propriety. But with the youngest member of the schoolroom party, whenever the honour of his guardianship was confided to her, the result was very different. Then mad rushes at fat-legged children, and shrill barks at nervous passers-by came to heighten the pleasures of the walk, and it is to be feared that they were not altogether displeasing to his small guardian. It was only play, and the young things at either end of the lead had not yet learned to take life seriously.

It was on the occasion of his chosen mistress’s first dance that Jet again showed his distinguishing talent. He always loved bright colours and evening dress, and when he saw his mistress in all the glories of her first ball dress, he showed his admiration in the most flattering way by walking backwards in front of her with little yelps of approval. When she left him his owner kissed her thanks to the discerning mite, and whispered to him not to be dull, but to enjoy himself. This injunction Jet proceeded to carry out.

He was left in the dining room, where a meal had been put on the table for the master of the house, who was not expected home till a late hour. When he arrived he received a warm welcome from Jet. Everything looked cosy and inviting to a tired traveller, but it seemed the parlourmaid had been forgetful. Butter and cheese had both been forgotten. True, both cheese and butter dish were on the table, but neither of them had been used. Thinking it too late to disturb the household, the meal was made without them. The next morning the mistress of the house, having been told of the oversight, mentioned it to the parlourmaid. But the maid indignantly denied the imputation. She was certain she had put both butter and cheese ready for the master.

Could Jet know anything about it? It seemed improbable, for neither the meat nor any of the other dishes on the table had been touched, and these would have been much more to his taste than the missing things. There was not the faintest paw-mark to suggest his having been on the table, and the two empty dishes seemed to say that nothing had been laid on them. Later it was discovered that the cheese was missing from the larder, but nothing explained the mystery until the remains of the nibbled cheese were discovered in a rounded recess in the dining room where the sideboard stood. It had been so cleverly concealed that it only came to light when the sideboard itself was moved. With its discovery Jet’s crime was made clear. He had evidently jumped on the table to investigate, and with his usual discrimination refraining from touching what would have proclaimed his guilt at once, he had eaten the butter and cleaned the dish so that no trace of his work was left. Then he must have pushed the cheese from the table, taking care to leave no sign behind, and after finishing his meal on it, put it cleverly out of sight.

The hold Jet had by this time secured in the family affection was proved by the fact that his mistress’s parting injunction to enjoy himself was held to be the cause of the crime, and it was decreed that the delinquent was not to be punished.

It may be easily believed that the kitchen was no place for such a fascinating dog. Visits to the cook were found to injure his digestion, and they were sternly forbidden. The study, however, was on the ground floor, for the house being built on a hill, the windows of the back room opened on to the large garden common to all the houses of the long row. A visit to the study often gave Jet his opportunity. While his own mistress was in the schoolroom Jet would go to the study with her mother. One morning, having omitted to close the door after her, his temporary guardian found that Jet had left her. Calling to him she saw a little dusky form creep noiselessly from the front kitchen, pass the open door without a sound, and make his way upstairs. A second later an excited and noisy little dog came clattering downstairs, and rushed into the study with every manifestation of joy at having found out where she was. The cleverness of his acting here again saved him from punishment for disobedience to orders.

Jet, as I have said, was fed with great care, and such unwholesome dainties as bones of birds were forbidden him. But it was often noticed that when he came in from a run in the big gardens he had been eating something. One day he was so uncomfortable that, dropping concealment, he came to his mistress for assistance. A fine bone had worked its way into his upper lip. His mistress was puzzled as to how it came there, but concluded that some cat must have taken it into the gardens. A few days later the croquet things were wanted, and as soon as the box was opened, Jet’s supply of bones stood revealed. There in a corner was a little hoard of grouse bones.

The box stood in the small space between the top of the kitchen stairs and the door that led into the gardens. The bones must have been taken from the plates as they were brought from the dining room, and the half-open box that stood invitingly near offered a ready place of concealment. In Jet’s many unattended excursions into the gardens he must have visited his store and taken some out for present enjoyment, but never by a sniff as he passed at any other time did he betray their presence. Doubtless he heard with complacency, touched by grief at the loss of his store, the admiration expressed for his talents and his self-restraint.

Only once was Jet surprised in the act. An open larder door and an eager attentive collie, gazing with longing at an upper shelf, surprised him out of his usual attention to details. The larder floor was sunk, and from the top of the unguarded steps it was the work of a moment for Jet to jump on to the opposite shelf. Here he proceeded to lift the wire covering from a couple of ducks, and not having made good his bearings previously, he was discovered busily employed by the kitchen authority, when she returned to close the door against intruders.

At this time it was a much disputed point between the respective owners of the collie and the spaniel as to which dog was the culprit in the matter of stealing toast from the breakfast table before any one was down in the morning. Jet’s exploit in the larder was held to settle the question, and he was gently cuffed and sternly spoken to on the subject. But Jet was not of those who suffer wrong patiently. The following morning an imperious little barking creature made his appearance in the kitchen and induced one of the maids to go with him to the dining room. Here the collie was found helping himself to toast, and it would be hard to say whether Jet or his mistress was the better pleased at the discovery.

Jet’s appearance gained him a great deal of attention, and added to his self-importance. His way of receiving any expression of admiration from strangers was quite his own. A blank, unseeing stare of haughty indifference came over him, and just the tip of a pink tongue suggested intentional rudeness if the attentions were too pressing. A quick look of intelligence at his own people that passed like a flash claimed their sympathy in his performance, and in this Jet was rarely disappointed.

As a young and very healthy dog, Jet had very keen senses and a good memory. His knowledge of locality was above the common, and though he travelled much he was never lost, either in town or country. If his mistress lost him, she knew it was wilful behaviour on his part, and that when the welcome call was heard at the door, a repentant mass of silky black hair would soon be asking pardon at her feet. Once, indeed, his owner thought he had strayed. She had taken him with her to stay at a friend’s house in a strange part of London, and they arrived at their destination in a thick fog. Almost immediately Jet demanded to be let out, and so insistent was he that at last the front door was opened for him. Straight out into the fog he rushed, and as time passed without his return his mistress gave him up for lost. But Jet, doubtless, had been satisfying a natural curiosity as to the nature of his surroundings, and in due course a calm little dog came back, as if thick fog and strange houses were a matter of no moment to him.

In the country the pleasures of a walk had nothing sedate about them. Jet hunted the country round, in spite of the drawbacks attached to his long love-locks. Often, when his short nose had to trace the scent, and the pace was hot, his beautiful ears would get under his front paws. But a silent somersault was all that happened; he paid no attention to the pain, in the eagerness of his pursuit. The larger dogs were always ready to follow up Jet’s discoveries, and though when they looked over stones or banks the tiny leader had to jump on the obstacles, he was always to the front.

Jet was always ready to lead his followers into mischief. If he did not fight himself, he liked seeing others fight, and was never tired of having the sheep chased in the park at his suggestion. A young collie was a great ally of his, and Jet was once watched as he collected a brood of young chickens and set the other dog to drive them into the river. At this point his owner intervened, and Jet was hurried away from the Highland farm where his exploit had taken place. Years afterwards, when Jet’s happy little life was ended, his mistress was again in the neighbourhood, and heard from the lips of a stranger staying at the farm the history of the little black dog’s mischievous performance, which on a former visit he had watched from a window.

When Jet and his mistress first went to live in the country, the latter began to keep chickens. These lived in a stable, and a small hole cut in the door let them in to nests and safety. There were great cacklings in the mornings, which raised their owner’s hopes high, but it was seldom indeed that an egg was found. Jet’s mistress, who was new to country occupations and was keenly interested in the success of her chickens, studied books on the subject, and watched her unsatisfactory hens with care. There was never a sign of a broken egg-shell about the place, and she therefore scouted the idea with scorn that Jet should be interested in the matter. One day, however, she called Jet to her when she had in her hand an egg that was to be cut up for her canaries. Jet came running up in answer to the call, but no sooner did he see the egg than he fell on his back, with waving paws in the air, a self-convicted criminal.

The question now was as to how the mischief had been wrought. Many were the theories suggested, but one after another they were all felt to be untenable. A few days afterwards Jet’s old friend the collie had to be fastened up, as a disagreeable neighbour had a still more disagreeable gamekeeper, and the latter threatened to shoot all dogs found on his land. This proved to be Jet’s undoing.

As soon as he was let out in the morning, Jet made his way to the stable, squeezed his small body through the door, and without destroying the friendly relations between him and the mothers, secured his morning feast of eggs. Leaving no trace of his meal, he was seen to come out, bearing a shell in his mouth, and look round for the collie. He then went back and brought away every remnant of shell that would have borne evidence against him. But no friendly collie came at his call to eat up the little pile of broken shell and thus bring the enterprise to its usual successful ending. Jet had done his part with all the finish of an accomplished conspirator, but the egg-shells remained as a witness against him. When his mistress paid her usual after-breakfast visit to the chicken yard, Jet showed no disposition to accompany her.

The tiny creature had a brave heart, and before he left his London home he saved the house from being robbed. Along the row of houses ran a parapet that led past some of the bedroom windows, of which Jet’s mistress’s room was one. While the family were downstairs at dinner, Jet was lying on the bed in this room. A man who came creeping along the parapet stopped at the window and prepared to effect an entrance. But Jet was on the alert, and springing from the bed he barked his loudest, thereby causing the burglar to move on, and in time bringing his family up to see what dire misfortune could have happened to him. But though resolute in doing his duty, Jet had no taste for acting guard, and never again would he be left alone in that room.

He was about two and a half years old when he first went with his family to the seaside. He had not seen the sea since he left his first home at the age of six months, but he greeted the sight of it as that of an old friend. His first performance was to lead a younger but much larger dog into difficulties over the slippery seaweed-covered rocks. To Jet’s slight form and active ways these presented no difficulty; but he insisted on the other dog following him until, the puppy’s strength and courage both failing, he came to a standstill in a spot perilously near the advancing waves. Then Jet was satisfied, and hastened back to his friends to tell them their assistance was needed. While he watched the rescue there was an air of self-possessed interest and innocent enjoyment about him that he always displayed on these occasions.

The hour of bathing was not one of unmixed enjoyment for Jet. He had no idea of risking his dainty form in the vast expanse of water, and resisted all invitations to join in his friends’ pleasure. But when he saw his mistress plunge into unknown dangers, he no longer hesitated. With a spring and a splash he resolutely faced the peril for himself, and swam out to her assistance. After this, Jet’s devotion was not put to the test again.

No one realised that the active little creature had passed the prime of life till an accident brought the sad fact home to his friends. He seemed to do no more than give a passing sniff at a dead rat, but the whiff of strychnine was enough to give him slight spasms and fits, from which it took him long to recover. Never again was Jet to enjoy life with the same irresponsible freedom that had marked his earlier days. When his sight began to weaken, he was very tetchy about its being noticed, for his ardent little spirit could not brook the restraining limits of a semi-invalid existence. Yet he lived to a good old age, and only left his many friends when sixteen summers had brought him the varied joys of which he had known how to make the most.