Lad: A Dog (21 page)

Bearing down upon the trio was a large person, round and yellow of face and clad elaborately in a morning costume that suggested a stud groom with ministerial tendencies. He was dressed for the Occasion. Mr. Glure was always dressed for the Occasion.

“Hello, people!” repeated the Wall Street Farmer, alternately pump-handling the totally unresponsive Mistress and Master. “I see you've been admiring the Maury Trophy. Magnificent, eh? Oh, Maury's a prince, I tell you! A prince! A bit eccentric, perhaps—as you'll have guessed by the conditions he's put up for the cup. But a prince. A prince! We think everything of him on the Street. Have you seen my new dog? Oh, you must go and take a look at Lochinvar! I'm entering him for the Maury Trophy, you know.”

“Yes,” assented the Master dully, as Mr. Glure paused to breathe. “I know.”

He left his exultant host with some abruptness, and piloted the Mistress back to the Collie Section. There they came upon a scene of dire wrath. Disgruntled owners were loudly denouncing the Maury conditions list, and they redoubled their plaint at sight of the two new victims of the trick.

Folk who had bathed and brushed and burnished their pets for days, in eager anticipation of a neighborhood contest, gargled in positive hatred at the glorious Merle. They read the pink slips over and over with more rage at each perusal.

One pretty girl had sat down on the edge of a bench, gathering her beloved gold-and-white collie's head in her lap, and was crying unashamed. The Master glanced at her. Then he swore softly, and set to work helping the Mistress in the task of fluffing Lad's glossy coat to a final soft shagginess.

Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say; but Lad realized more keenly than could a human that both his gods were wretchedly unhappy, and his great heart yearned pathetically to comfort them.

“There's one consolation,” said a woman at work on a dog in the opposite bench, “Lochinvar's not entered for anything except the Maury Cup. The clerk told me so.”

“Little good that will do any of us!” retorted her bench neighbor. “In an all-specialty show, the winner of the Maury Trophy will go up for the ‘Winners' Class,' and that means Lochinvar will get the cup for the ‘Best Collie,' as well as the Maury Cup and probably the cup for ‘Best Dog of any Breed,' too. And—”

“The Maury Cup is the first collie event on the program,” lamented the other. “It's slated to be called before even the Puppy and the Novice classes. Mr. Glure has—”

“Contestants for the Maury Trophy—all out!” bawled an attendant at the end of the section.

The Master unclasped the chain from Lad's collar, snapped the light show-ring leash in its place and handed the leash to the Mistress.

“Unless you'd rather have me take him in?” he whispered. “I hate to think of your handling a loser.”

“I'd rather take Lad to defeat than any other dog to—a Gold Hat,” she answered, sturdily. “Come along, Laddie!”.

The Maury contest, naturally, could not be decided in the regular show ring. Mr. Glure had thoughtfully set aside a quadrangle of greensward for the Event—a quadrangle bounded by four white and numbered posts, and bearing a larger white post in its center.

A throng of people was already banked deep on all four sides of the enclosure when the Mistress arrived. The collie judge standing by the central post declaimed loudly the conditions of the contest. Then he asked for the first entrant.

This courtier of failure chanced to be the only other local dog besides Lad that had survived the first two clauses of the conditions. He chanced also to be the dog over which the pretty girl had been crying.

The girl's eyes were still red through a haze of powder as she led her slender little gold-and snow collie into the ring. She had put on a filmy white muslin dress with gold ribbons that morning with the idea of matching her dog's coloring. She looked very sweet and dainty—and heartsore.

At the central post she glanced up hopelessly at the judge who stood beside her. The judge indicated Post No. I with a nod. The girl blinked at the distant post, then at her collie, after which she pointed to the post.

“Run on over there, Mac!” she pleaded. “That's a good boy!”

The little collie wagged his tail, peered expectantly at her, and barked. But he did not stir. He had not the faintest idea what she wanted him to do, although he would have been glad to do it. Wherefore the bark.

Presently (after several more fruitless entreaties which reduced the dog to a paroxysm of barking) she led her collie out of the enclosure, strangling her sobs as she went. And again the Master swore softly, but with much venomous ardor.

And now, at the judge's command, the Mistress led Lad into the quadrangle and up to the central post. She was very pale, but her thoroughbred nerves were rocklike in their steadiness. She, like Lad, was of the breed that goes down fighting. Lad walked majestically beside her, his eyes dark with sorrow over his goddess' unhappiness, which he could not at all understand and which he so longed to lighten. Hitherto, at dog shows, Lad had been the only representative of The Place to grieve.

He thrust his nose lovingly into the Mistress' hand, as he moved along with her to the post; and he whined, under his breath.

Ranging up beside the judge, the Mistress took off Lad's leash and collar. Stroking the dog's upraised head, she pointed to the No. I Post.

“Over there,” she bade him.

Lad looked in momentary doubt at her, and then at the post. He did not see the connection, nor know what he was expected to do. So, again he looked at the sorrowing face bent over him.

“Lad!” said the Mistress gently, pointing once more to the Post. “Go!”

Now, there was not one dog at The Place that had not known from puppyhood the meaning of the word “Go!” coupled with the pointing of a finger. Fingers had pointed, hundreds of times, to kennels or to the open doorways or to canoe bottoms or to car tonneaus or to whatsoever spot the dog in question was desired to betake himself. And the word “Go!” had always accompanied the motion.

Lad still did not see why he was to go where the steady finger indicated. There was nothing of interest over there, no one to attack at command. But he went.

He walked for perhaps fifty feet; then he turned and looked back.

“Go on!” called the voice that was his loved Law.

And he went on. Unquestionably, as uncomprehendingly, he went, because the Mistress told him to! Since she had brought him out before this annoying concourse of humans to show off his obedience all he could do was to obey. The knowledge of her mysterious sadness made him the more anxious to please her.

So on he went. Presently, as his progress brought him alongside a white post, he heard the Mistress call again. He wheeled and started toward her at a run. Then he halted again, almost in mid-air.

For her hand was up in front of her, palm forward, in a gesture that had meant “Stop!” from the time he had been wont to run into the house with muddy feet, as a puppy.

Lad stood, uncertain. And now the Mistress was pointing another way and calling:

“Go on! Lad! Go on!”

Confused, the dog started in the new direction. He went slowly. Once or twice he stopped and looked back in perplexity at her; but, as often, came the steady-voiced order:

“Go on! Lad! Go
on!”

n plodded Lad. Vaguely, he was beginning to hate this new game played without known rules and in the presence of a crowd. Lad abominated a crowd.

But it was the Mistress' bidding, and in her dear voice his quick hearing could read what no human could read—a hard-fought longing to cry. It thrilled the big dog, this subtle note of grief. And all he could do to ease her sorrow, apparently, was to obey this queer new whim of hers as best he might.

He had continued his unwilling march as far as another post when the welcome word of recall came—the recall that would bring him close again to his sorrowing deity. With a bound he started back to her.

But, for the second time, came that palm-forward gesture and the cry of “Stop! Go
back!”

Lad paused reluctantly and stood panting. This thing was getting on his fine-strung nerves. And nervousness ever made him pant.

The Mistress pointed in still another direction, and she was calling almost beseechingly:

“Go on, Lad! Go
on!”

Her pointing hand waved him ahead and, as before, he followed its guidance. Walking heavily, his brain more and more befogged, Lad obeyed. This time he did not stop to look to her for instructions. From the new vehemence of the Mistress' gesture she had apparently been ordering him off the field in disgrace, as he had seen puppies ordered from the house. Head and tail down, he went.

But, as he passed by the third of those silly posts, she recalled him. Gleeful to know he was no longer in disgrace he galloped toward the Mistress; only to be halted again by that sharp gesture and sharper command before he had covered a fifth of the distance from the post to herself.

The Mistress was actually pointing again—more urgently than ever—and in still another direction. Now her voice had in it a quiver that even the humans could detect; a quiver that made its sweetness all but sharp.

“Go on, Lad! Go
on!”

Utterly bewildered at his usually moodless Mistress' crazy mood and spurred by the sharp reprimand in her voice, Lad moved away at a crestfallen walk. Four times he stopped and looked back at her, in piteous appeal, asking forgiveness of the unknown fault for which she was ordering him away. but always he was met by the same fierce Go
on!”

And he went.

Of a sudden, from along the tight-crowded edges of the quadrangle, went up a prodigious handclapping punctured by such foolish and ear-grating yells as “Good
boy!” “Good
old Laddie!” “He
did
it!”

And through the looser volume of sound came the Mistress' call of :

“Laddie! Here,
Lad!”

In doubt, Lad turned to face her. Hesitatingly he went toward her expecting at every step that hateful command of “Go
back!”

But she did not send him back. Instead, she was running forward to meet him. And out of her face the sorrow—but not the desire to cry—had been swept away by a tremulous smile.

Down on her knees beside Lad the Mistress flung herself, and gathered his head in her arms and told him what a splendid, dear dog he was and how proud she was of him.

All Lad had done was to obey orders, as any dog of his brain and heart and home training might have obeyed them. Yet, for some unexplained reason, he had made the Mistress wildly happy. And that was enough for Lad.

Forgetful of the crowd, he licked at her caressing hands in puppylike ecstasy; then he rolled in front of her; growling ferociously and catching one of her little feet in his mighty jaws, as though to crush it. This foot-seizing game was Lad's favorite romp with the Mistress. With no one else would he condescend to play it, and the terrible white teeth never exerted the pressure of a tenth of an ounce on the slipper they gripped.

“Laddie!” the Mistress was whispering to him,
“Laddie!
You did it, old friend. You did it terribly badly I suppose, and of course we'll lose. But we'll ‘lose right.' We've made the contest. You
did
it!”

And now a lot of noisy and bothersome humans had invaded the quadrangle and wanted to paw him and pat him and praise him. Wherefore Lad at once got to his feet and stood aloofly disdainful of everything and everybody. He detested pawing, and, indeed, any outsider's handling.

Through the congratulating knot of folk the Wall Street Farmer elbowed his way to the Mistress.

“Well, well!” he boomed. “I must compliment you on Lad! A really intelligent dog. I was surprised. I didn't think any dog could make the round unless he'd been trained to it. Quite a dog! But, of course, you had to call to him a good many times. And you were signaling pretty steadily every second. Those things count heavily against you, you know. In fact, they goose-egg your chances if another entrant can go the round without so much coaching. Now my dog Lochinvar never needs the voice at all and he needs only one slight gesture for each maneuver. Still, Lad did very nicely. He—why does the sulky brute pull away when I try to pat him?”

“Perhaps,” ventured the Mistress, “perhaps he didn't catch your name.”

Then she and the Master led Lad back to his bench where the local contingent made much of him, and where—after the manner of a high-bred dog at a Show—he drank much water and would eat nothing.

When the Mistress went again to the quadrangle, the crowd was banked thicker than ever, for Lochinvar III was about to compete for the Maury Trophy.