Dumb Bell Of Brookfield

en

131 694

Dumb-Bell
of Brookjield

By JOHN TAINTOR FOOTE

FULL PERSONALITY

FATAL GESTURE

TRUB'S DIARY

POCONO SHOT

A WEDDING GIFT

THE SONG OF THE DRAGON

THE LOOK OF EAGLES

DUMB-BELL OF BROOKFIELD

THE LUCKY SEVEN

BLISTER JONES

Dumb-Bell
of Brook fie Id

BY

John Taintor Foote

Author of "The Look of Eagles/'

"Blister Jones" etc.

Foreword

by

Rex Beach

D. Appleton-Century Company

Incorporated
New York London

1936

IX APPLETON AND COMPANY

reserved. This book, or parts
thereof, must not be reproduced in any
form without permission of the publishers,

Copyright, ItfIS, 1916, by the Phillips Publishing Company
Printed in the United States of America

To

Of*

FOREWORD

THE first time I read "Dumb-Bell of
Brookfield" I laughed and I cried.
The second time I read it I laughed more
and I cried more. The third time but I
love dogs and I am emotional. If you are
not a dog lover, do not read the book for
it is an example of brief, simple, sincere
writing that should bring joy to anybody,
and I cherish the spiteful conviction that
a person who does not love fine dogs does
not deserve a fine book. He has missed
so much anyhow that a little more cannot
make any possible difference.

Stories are great only when they are
alive. This one lives. Its characters are

real, breathing people, and such nice peo-

Vll

Foreword

pie, moreover, that you will want to know
them. You will wish that you knew Jim
Gregory and his wife, the lovely lady of
Brookfield, and Peter, and Leona, and
Mr. Parmalee, and the rest. Above all,
however, you will wish that you knew
Dumb-Bell, or had known him before he
came to his last point up there among the
moaning pines, and held it.

A thoughtful man once said that so long
as we retain fish in our streams and wild
game in our fields and our forests our
civilization is safe. He also added that so
long as we cherish dogs as companions,
our institutions are pretty sure to last, and
he explained his reasoning thus: the dog
is the one useless domestic animal that has
survived the ruthless economy of time, and
his survival is due solely to his unique ca-
pacity for unfaltering love and devotion.
Even cats have a certain usefulness aside
viii

Foreword

from their entertainment value. So long
as men respond to the reasonless, not to
say misplaced, affection of dumb animals,
there can be nothing seriously wrong with*
their ideals.

A book of genuine emotional appeal,
that induces a man to look unashamed in-
to his own heart, is worth while, and it will
last as long as men's hearts are worth look-
ing into.

If ever you have gone into the field with
a hunting dog, or raised and trained a
litter of hunting puppies, or sat before the
fire with a bird dog at your side, you will
acknowledge that the setter is king of his
kind. You will understand the Gregorys,
too, and honor them for keeping the great
Roderigo's throne empty until there came
one who could sit upon it without shame.
Of all the heroes that march through the
pages of books, none is more valiant or
ix

Foreword

more steadfast than the little plumed
Knight of Brookfield, he of the winged
feet and the dauntless heart. Dumb-Bell
was more than a champion, more than a
dog, he was a gallant gentleman and a
philosopher, and he held as his creed a
truth that many of us would do well to
pause and ponder over; namely, the way
to gain a friend is to he one.

REX BEACH.

CONTENTS

CHAPTEE

FOREWORD ..... vii

I. THE RUNT 3

II. A RELUCTANT TRAVELER 59

IIL DUMB-BELL'S CHECK .... 97

IV. A PERMANENT INTRUDER . . .143

V. DUMB-BELL'S GUEST .... 175

VI. ORDERED ON 221

THE RUNT

THE RUNT

THE king sat on his throne and
blinked at the sunlight streaming
through the French window. His eyes
were pools of liquid amber filled with a
brooding dignity, and kind beyond ex-
pression. His throne was a big leather
chair, worn and slouchy, that stood in
the bay window of the Brookfield living-
^oom. He had slept there all night, and
it was time for a maid to come, open the
French window, and let him out into
ihe dew-washed rose garden.

The king was old. He had seized the

throne years before. He had been put

on the train one day, with nothing but his

pedigree and a prayer. He had come

3

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

home, six months later, champion of
champions, greatest field trial setter of
his time, lion-hearted defender of the
honor of Brookfield.

He never saw the inside of the kennels
again. He had been given humbly the
freedom of the house. After due sniff-
ings at one place and another he had
taken the leather chair for his own. From
then on visitors were asked to sit else-
where, if they didn't mind, because Tie
might want his chair, and he was Cham-
pion Brookfield Roderigo.

So now the king sat on his throne, or
rather lay curled up in it, with his long,
deep muzzle resting on his paws. At the
end of that muzzle was a nose. A nose
uncanny in its swift certainty. A nose
which had allowed him to go down wind,
running like fire, stiffen in the middle of
one of his effortless bounds, twist himself

The Runt

in the air, and light rigid at a bevy a hun-
dred feet away. He had done this again
and again when only a "derby." He had
done it in the National Championship un-
til hard-riding men, galloping behind him,
had yelled like boys, and Judge Beldon,
mad beyond all ethics, had called across
to another judge, "The dog never lived
that could beat him, Tom!"

This was a flagrant breach of form.
It was unpardonable for a field trial
judge to indicate his choice before the of-
ficial vote. That night Judge Beldon
apologized to the owner of the pointer,
Rip Rap Messenger, who was running
with, or rather far behind, the king at the
time.

But the owner of the pointer only said:
"Forget it, Judge ! Why, I was as crazy
as any of you. Man, oh, man, ain't he
some dog!"

5

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

All this was long ago. It was no longer
part of the king's life, and he was not
thinking of those triumphant days of his
youth. He wondered how soon the maid
would come and let him out. Once in the
garden he might find a toad under a rose-
bush at which to paw tentatively. Per-
haps he would dig up the piece of dog
cake he had buried in the black earth near
the sundial. And there was that mole the
terrier had killed, it was certainly worth
a sniff or two. No doubt a gardener had
removed it by this time, though . * .
meddlesome things, gardeners an un-
guarded bone was scarcely safe a mo-
ment when one of them was about!

Where was that maid? Why didn't
she come? Perhaps he had better take
a little nap. He closed his eyes. . . .
He never opened them again. The heart
that had pumped so stanch a beat for
6

The Runt

Brookfield decided to pump no more. A
shudder passed over the king's body , . .
then it was still.

The maid came presently and called
his name. When he didn't stir she went
to the leather chair and looked, her eyes
growing wide. She hurried from the
room and up the stairs.

"Mister Gregory, sir/' she panted at a
door, "won't you come down, please?
Roderigo he don't move. He don't
move at all, sir!"

She was beside the chair again when
the master of Brookfield arrived in his
dressing gown.

"He don't move " she repeated.

The master of Brookfield put his hand
on the king's head. He slid his other
hand under the king's body between the
fore legs and held it there for a moment.
Then he stooped, gathered a dangling
7

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

paw, and rubbed the raspy pad of it
against his cheek.

"No. He won't move any more/' he
said. "Ask Mrs. Gregory to come down."

When the mistress of Brookfield came,
she kneeled before the king in a patch of
the streaming sunlight at which he had
blinked early that morning. She kneeled
a long time, twisting one of the king's
soft ears between her fingers.

"He liked to have me do that," she
said, looking up.

The master of Brookfield nodded.

The mistress of Brookfield bent until
her lips were close to the ear she had been
stroking.

"Old lover . . . old lover!" she whis-
pered. Then she got up suddenly and
went out into the rose garden.

And so there was a chair which no one
ever sat in standing in the bay window
8

The Runt

of the living-room. And it was under-
stood that the chair would remain empty
until a dog was born at Brookfield who
could lie in it without shame.

Highland Lassie was in disgrace. Her
field trial record was forgotten. She had
brought three puppies into the world and
had smothered two of them before they
were six hours old,

"An' to think," wailed Peter, head ken-
nel man at Brookfield, "the 'ussy's went
an' rolled on the only Roderigo puppies
this world'll ever see again! Look what
she's got left one pup, an' 'im the runt 1"
He poked the pinky-white atom with a
stumpy forefinger, and Highland Lassie
cuddled the puppy hastily to her side.

Leona, the big blond waitress, removed
a straw from Peter's coat and allowed her
hand to linger on his sleeve.
9

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Are you not to your breakfast com-
ing?" she asked.

But Peter had forgotten for the time
that her eyes were blue, that her bosom
was deep, and that she looked like gold
and milk and roses.

"Breakfust?" he snorted. "An 5 what
do I care about breakfust? 'Aven't I
just told you she's gone an' killed two
Roderigo pups, an ? 'im layin' out there
in the orchard?"

Leona gave a gentle tug at his sleeve.

"Always more puppies there will be/'
she said, and her words were like the notes
of a flute.

Peter straightened up and glared at
her.

"Always more puppies there will be!"
he repeated with dreadful scorn. "You
go back to the 3 ouse!"

Leona departed with a quivering lip,
10

The Rum

to have her statement swiftly verified.
That very day Black-Eyed Susan became
the mother of seven, of whom Dan Gath,
winner of the Manitoba All Age, was the
indifferent father.

"A fine litter by a good young sire!"
said Peter. "Brookfield ain't done yet.
'Ow's that for a grand pup the second
one there? 'E'll be a movin' picture, you
'ear me!"

"Maybe he'll be champion/' suggested
a kennel boy, hopefully.

"Champion!" said Peter. "So'll your
grandmother. 'Ere, put some fresh
straw in that corner an' don't you
bother the bitch whilst you're doin' it,
neither."

But when the boy had gone Peter
filled his pipe and stared thoughtfully at
Black-Eyed Susan, her eyes still fever
bright from birth pangs.
U

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

" 'E might at that, old gel/' said Peter
softly. " 'E might at that/'

Four months later the second puppy
in the row of seven had grown into a
thing of beauty that made you gasp when
you saw him. From his proudly chiseled
head to the glistening plume of his tail he
was a triumph.

"The grandest pup weVe ever bred at
Brookfield!" said Peter. "For looks,
that is," he added, glancing out toward
the orchard. "Only for looks."

Highland Lassie's puppy grew also,
He lived in a land of plenty unshared by
crowding brothers and sisters. He did
not dine in frantic haste, but deliberately
and at his ease, his soft-eyed mother
watching.

He was seldom disturbed by callers.
Even the abundance he received failed
to give him size. He could add nothing,
12

The Runt

therefore, to the honor of Brookfield.
He could only dim, a little, the glory
of his sire and so they let him
alone.

Then weaning time came, and his
mother neglected him more and more.
At last she gave him up altogether, and
he was left to his own devices.

He tried hard to make the time pass*
A spaiTow lighting in his runway was a
great event. He would creep toward it,
and at the proper distance would halt and
stand rigid until the sparrow flew away.
Sometimes the sparrow would fly to a
wire above the kennel and make a shadow
pn the ground. When this happened he
pointed the shadow very carefully until
it, too, was gone. Always he wished to
pounce upon the sparrow, or its shadow;
but he was a son of Roderigo the great
Roderigo who never flushed a bird and
13

Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

so he held his point, with no one there
to see.

Sparrows were few, however. They sel-
dom came to his yard. In the long hours
between their visits he was lonesome. He
grew to have a wistful expression, and a
grin that went to the heart. He seemed
to be grinning at himself. The last son of
Roderigo was a runt! It was a joke, a
grim joke, and he grinned at it.

When winter withdrew at last and
spring marched over the hills to Brook-
field, a great washing descended upon the
kennels and no one escaped.

Highland Lassie's puppy was smitten
with the rest. He was taken by a ken-
nel boy to the washroom and there he
suffered in silence. The bath brought
out his markings clearly, and after a
casual glance at him Peter bent over and
examined his left side,
U

The Runt

"Now ain't that a curious mark?" he
said. "It might 'ave been painted on
'im, it's that perfect. It's like one of
them things the strong man 'olds up in
the circus I forget what you call 'em.
TE's the runt, by the old dog out of the
Lassie bitch, ain't *e?"

"Yep," said the kennel boy. "He's all
alone in ]S T o. 9 runway."

"You 'aven't growed much, 'ave you?"
said Peter.

The wee son of Roderigo, his eyes still
smarting from carbolic soap, looked up
at Peter and grinned.

Peter drew in his breath sharply.

"BF me!" he said. "The beggar
knows. . . . Not much doin' down there
in No. 9, is there? 'Ow'd you like to
see the world for a while?"

Once more the puppy grinned up at
him.

15

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"All right/' said Peter. "I'll come an'
get you when I'm through."

An hour later Peter opened the gate of
runway No. 9.

"Come on out, Runt!" he said cheer-
fully. And tne runt, for that, it seemed,
was to be his name, came out. He stood
for a moment, dazed by sudden freedom,
then sped like an arrow far across the
lawn. Peter's eyes lighted.

" 'E can move !" he said. Then his face
felL "Butwhat'U that get him?" he mut-
tered. " ? E couldn't step over a lead
pencil !"

Each morning from then on the runt
was let out to follow Peter about the
place. Peter was in a cheerful mood
these days. The master and mistress of
Brookfield would soon return from Flor-
ida, and he was anticipating a triumph.
"Won't the missus squeal when she sees

The Rum

!" he thought, as he brushed the shin-
ing coat of the Dan 6-ath puppy. "Eh,
Runt?" he said aloud. And the runt,
who had been gravely watching, grinned.

"I wish you'd quit that!" Peter told
him. "It gives me the creeps!"

When at last the great day came, Peter
scorned delay. The mistress of Brook-
field was still in her hat and gloves when
she heard that he was waiting in the rose
garden.

"What does he want?" she asked. "I've
hardly caught my breath!"

She was told that he had something to
show her.

"Oh!" she said, and went to the terrace
that looked down into the garden.

Then Peter had his triumph. He was
standing at the foot of the terrace in the
sunshine, and by his side was a living
marvel, new washed and glistening.
17

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

The mistress of Brookfield stared*
breathless for a moment.

"Oh, Peter!" she gasped. "He's a
wonder dog! Bring him inside!"

"Yes, mem/' said Peter, beaming.

"Bring him to the living-room, Peter.
Mr. Gregory's in there!"

She turned to the door, failing to see
that other who had followed Peter un-
certainly into the rose garden. She was
excited to begin with, and lie was very
small. Also, he felt that he did not be-
long in the sunshine beside the wonder
dog; so he had hidden himself behind a
rosebush and watched her through the
leaves.

When they went into the house and
left him, he crept up the steps, crossed
the terrace, and halted at the open door.
, . . Peter had gone in here with the
pretty lady, and it was his habit to fol*
18

The Runt

low Peter. He put a timid forepaw
across the threshold nothing happened,
He tried the other paw still nothing
happened. He caught the scent of Peter
now, so slowly and with caution he took
up the trail.

Presently he came to a big room, and
saw Peter and the pretty lady and a tall
man looking at the wonder dog. He
wished to keep out of sight until Peter
was ready to go. The recess of the bay
window seemed an excellent retreat and
he slipped into it. A doggy smell came
to him as he did so. He advanced and
found a huge chair with bulging arms
and a well-hollowed seat.

He loved the chair at sight. It seemed
so friendly and safe. It seemed to hold
out its arms to him in welcome. Why,
it actually seemed glad to see him!
Perhaps it didn't know that he was a
19

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

runt, . . * He curled down into its soft
hollow with a deep sigh of content-
ment.

The master of Brookfield was still star-
ing at the wonder dog.

"How did you do it, Peter?" he said
at last. "He's too good to be true!"

"'E'U be true/' said Peter, "if
breedinll do it. 'E's by Dan Gath, out
of Black-Eyed Susan. You get one
like ? im out of a thousand matin's
maybe."

"He's handsome enough," said the
master of Brookfield. "But what will
he do in the field?"

"Listen," said Peter; "I've 'ad 'im on
larks a time or two, an' I'm tellin' you
now, we never bred a faster, wider, 'igher-
'eaded goin' pup . . . but one." He
glanced toward the leather chair, and a
look of bewilderment came into his face,
20

The Runt

which changed to one of horror. "'Eavens
above I" he said. "Look there I"

They followed his gaze, conscious for
the first time of a strange sound which
rose and fell steadily in the bay window.

Curled deep in Roderigo's chair was
the runt, and, as Peter told the kennel
men afterward, " ? E was snorin' that 'eavy
you could "ear 'im all through the room."

"And what the devil is that?" said the
master of Brookfield, after a stunned
silence.

"The runt of the last litter by the old
dog/' said Peter. "'E just come along."

"Yes I see he did/' said the master
of Brookfield, "Come here, you!" he
called.

The runt opened one eye, twitched his
tail sleepily, and closed the eye again.
That was all.

A whip hung in the bay window. The
21

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

terrier who lived at the house could have
told the runt what that whip was for. In
a moment the tall man stood above him,

"Get down out of that!" he said, and
flicked the whip over the chair.

The runt was frightened. The big
chair was his only friend, it seemed. He
shrank deeper into it as the whip was
raised above him.

"Don't! Please, Jim!" said the mis-
tress of Brookfield. "He's so little. He'U
learn soon enough." She came and took
the runt by his scruff. "Get down, little
mannie," she said, "this place isn't for
you."

"I 'ope not!" said Peter.

"Never mind, Peter," she said. "It
isn't his fault that he's little, and that
was his daddy's chair. . . . Oh, Jim!
See that dumb-bell on his side! Look!
It's perfect!"

22

The Runt

"That's too bad!" said the master of
Brookfield, examining the mark.

"Why too bad?" asked Mrs. Gregory.

The master of Brookfield winked at
Peter.

"We'll never be able to lose him," he
explained. "Will we?" he said to the
runt, and the runt looked up and grinned.

Mrs. Gregory gave a quick little gasp.

"I hate such jokes!" she said. "Is he
registered, Peter?"

"No, mem," said Peter.

"Well, register him as Brookfield
Dumb-Bell and give him every chance."
Suddenly she stepped close to the runt.
"You two may have the beauty there,"
she flashed; "and his missy will look after
him!"

"Why, Chief!" said the master of
Brookfield.

"I don't care!" she said. "He's little
23

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

and I think he knows it and it isn't
his fault!" Then she went out of the
room.

The master of Brookfield rubbed his
chin thoughtfully.

"Now what did we do, Peter?" he
asked.

It was a hot summer that year. Day
after day the sun glared down at Brook-
field, and the runt panted as he followed
Peter. Often when visitors arrived and
Peter was told to bring the wonder dog
to the house the runt came along.

He was always embarrassed during
these visits. He felt smaller than ever in
the stately rooms of the big house. But
he remembered his friend the chair, and
while the visitors were exclaiming over
the wonder dog he would slip away quietly
and crawl into it.

He was whipped for this several times,
24

The Runt

but he never seemed to learn; so at last
he was put back in runway No. 9, where
there were no chairs at all, only loneliness
and an occasional sparrow.

One day the master of Brookfield vis-
ited the kennels.

"Peter," he said, "ship the Dan Gath
puppy to Ramsey, in Tennessee. Ship
him tomorrow night. Wire Ramsey.
. . . Hot, isn't it?"

"What about 9 imf* said Peter, jerking
his thumb toward a runway.

"What do you mean?" asked the master
of Brookfield. Then he saw the occupant
of No. 9 staring wistfully out at Peter.

"Oh!" he said, "you break him this fall
for a shooting dog. He ought to have a
nose on him."

As Peter was going over a dog crate
next day, he looked up to find the mis-
tress of Brookfield watching him.
25

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Good morning, Peter," she said,
"What's that crate for?"

"I'm shippin' the Dan Gath pup away
tonight, mem," said Peter. "'E's to 'ave
a chance at the trials."

"Why have you brought out only one
crate?" asked the mistress of Brookfield.

"I'm only shippin' one dog," said Peter,
tapping away with his hammer.

"Ah!" said she. "And when does the
runt go?"

"'E don't go," said Peter. "I'm to
break 'im myself for a shootin' dog."

"Peter!" said the mistress of Brook-
field.

"Yes, mem," said Peter uneasily.

"Get out another crate, please." And
when two crates stood side by side, the
mistress of Brookfield touched one of
them with her finger tips.

"The little chap," she said, "goes in this
26

The Runt

crate tonight. Do you understand me,
Peter?"

"Yes, mem," said Peter.

"And, Peter tell Ramsey to send the
training bills to me"

"Yes, mem," said Peter.

Two weeks later the mails brought a
letter to Brookfield. It was addressed to
Peter, and this is how it ran:

Emeryville, Tennessee, R. JR. No. 4

T> Sept. 6 9 19

FRIEND PETER: r

I take shame in telling you the small pup is
lost. He found a bevy the first day I took him
out, chased when they flushed, and I ain't seen
him since. I've hunted the country over and
offered big rewards. Tell Mrs. Gregory, and
say a good word for me. The big pup is doing
fine. I like every move he makes. I'll keep on
looking for the little pup, and that's all at
present. Yours ^ friendship?

W. RAMSEY,
27

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Peter sat on a sawhorse and slowly;
read his letter. He moved to an over-
turned grindstone, seeking a better light,
and read it again. He looked up toward
the house, a black pile against the setting
sun, and whistled softly.

"'Ell wiU be to pay shortly," he mut-
tered, and moved reluctantly to his doom.

The master of Brookfield had been to
the cattle barns to watch the milking*
When he returned he found that Peter
was something of a prophet. He found
his lady bathed in tears, Peter standing
miserably before her, and maids running
in all directions.

"I'm going to Tennessee tonight 1" she
gasped. "Read that!"

"But, Chief!" said the master of Brook-
field when he had read the letter. "You
couldn't possibly do any good down there.
If Ramsey, who knows every foot of the
28

The Runt

country, can't find him, how can you ex-
pect to?"

"I'll send down a motor and ride all
day," she told him. "You can come too
and Peter and Felix to drive . . ."

"Is that all?" he said. "We'll be quite
a party. It's out of the question, my
dear. . . . I'll tell Ramsey to double the
reward and do everything possible. . . .
You'll make yourself sick if you don't
stop crying!"

"We have lost him, you see! In spite
of your horrid joke about it. Now I hope
you and Peter are satisfied! I'll write to
Ramsey!" she added ominously. "Oh, I'll
write to Jiimf*

When W. Ramsey, Esq., received a
letter a few days later he whistled over
it much as Peter had whistled over
his.

"I guess I'd better quit trainin'," he
29

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

muttered, "an 5 go to pup huntin' for a
perfession!"

And until he went West with his
"string," the redoubtable Bill Ramsey,,
high-priced specialist in the training and
handling of field trial setters, turned his
field work and yard-breaking over to an
assistant, and scoured the country day
after day. But no one had seen a "real
small setter with a funny mark on his
side," and he never found a trace of what
he sought.

Brookfield Beau Brummell No. 43721
F. D. S, B., for such was now the won-
der dog's official title, was taken to a
country where he could go far, and fast,
and wide.

In the cramped valleys and thicket-
rimmed fields of the East, bobwhite lives
close to cover, and field trial dogs are edu-
30

The Runt

cated in the land of the prairie chicken,
where their handlers can keep them in
sight for mile after level mile.

The Beau was put down one morning
with the veteran Rappahannock as guide,
counselor, and friend. The sun was be-
ginning to climb the eastern side of the
huge blue void which domed an ocean of
grass.

"Hi, yah! Get away!" yelled Ramsey.
Rappahannock, free of the leash, shot
over a gentle rise and was gone. He had
eaten up a good half-mile of country when
the frostbitten grass began to whisper
just behind him. He flattened out in a
desperate effort to shake off the whisper,
but the whisper grew to the soft pad, pad
of flying feet, as the Beau, moving like
oil, flowed past.

Ramsey lowered his field glasses and
smiled.

81

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Look out for that one, Mike!" he
called to his assistant. "They've bred an-
other bird dog at Brookfield!"

As time went on and the Beau devel-
oped into a prodigy of speed, range, and
nose, Peter went about his work with a
far-away look in his eyes. His body was
at Brookfield, his spirit in Manitoba.
The Beau would make his first start in
the great Canadian stake, and "They
can't beat him!" was the word that came
from Ramsey.

On the day the stake was run Peter
sat on the grindstone and whittled. He
spoke no word to anyone. Late in the
evening the telephone bell rang in the
kennels, but Peter never stirred. A ken-
nel boy approached him timidly.

"They want you up to the house," said
the boy; and Peter closed his knife and
rose.

32

The Runt

He found the mistress of Brookfield in
the living-room. Her cheeks were
flushed, her eyes like stars. She was
dancing about the master of Brookfield
with a fluttering telegram in her hand.

"Peter!" she said, "Oh, Peter! See
what our boy's done!"

Peter read the telegram, then looked
at the master of Brookfield through half
shut lids.

"If they don't watch 'im VII likely take
the National/' he said.

"It's possible," said the master of
Brookfield. "Yes, it's possible."

"Why, of course," said Mrs. Gregory.
"Didn't you know that? He's to be cham-
pion. . . . Outclassed his field!" she sang.
"Did you read that, Peter? Read it
again."

This was only the beginning. The Beau
Swept through field trial after field trial,
33

Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

piling victory upon victory. He won
again in Canada. He came nearer home,
into Illinois, to take the Independent All
Age from the best dogs in the land. He
went down into Georgia, and left his field
gasping behind him in the select Conti-
nental. He won "off' by himself," as
Ramsey said, in the Eastern Subscription
against twenty-five starters, and "every
dog worth a million dollars !"

He was certain to take the National.
No other dog could stand his pace in the
three-hour running of the Championship.
Rival handlers conceded this, and Black-
Eyed Susan came into her own.

"Susan is trying not to look down on
the rest of us, Peter," explained the mis-
tress of Brookfield.

Peter watched Black-Eyed Susan par-
take of crackers and cream languidly, and
from a silver spoon
34

The Runt

"I can't say as ? ow you're 'elpin' 'er
much," he said.

Then suddenly Ramsey was smitten
with inflammatory rheumatism, and the
Beau was turned over to Scott Benson,
who would handle him in his other en-
gagements.

"Don't worry," Peter told the master
of Brookfield. "Scott's a good 'andler,
It's all over, anyway, but the United
States and the Championship. . . . Are
you goin' down?"

"To the National? Why, yes," said the
master of Brookfield. He caught a wist-
ful look in Peter's eyes. "Would you
care to go?" he asked.

Peter bent over and picked up a willow
twig for whittling purposes.

"Why, I expect the boys could look
after things here for a day or two," he
said.

35

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

The United States All Age was the
last big stake Before the Champion-
ship. On the morning after it was run,
Peter was whistling as he sprinkled the
whelping shed with disinfectant. Foot-
steps crunched on the gravel outside and
he stepped to the door. The master of
Brookfield stood there with a newspaper
in his hand.

"He was beaten, Peter," he said*

ff NoT said Peter. And after a si-
lence "What beat 'im?"

"Little Sam," said the master of
Brookfield.

"An' who is Little Sam?" asked
Peter.

"I don't know," said the master of
Brookfield. "I never heard of him be-
fore. Our dog was second. Herel Read
it yourself."

The dispatch was short:
36

The Runt

Grand Junction, Tenn., Jan. 8.
In the All Age stake of the United States
Field Trial Club, Little Sam, lemon and white
setter, handled by C. E. Todd, was first. Brook-
field Beau Brummell, black, white, and ticked
setter, handled by Scott Benson, was second*
Thirty-two starters.

"C. E. Todd!" said Peter. "Why,
that's Old Man Todd 'e's eighty years
old if 'e's a day ! What's 'e doin' back in
the game?"

"Don't ask me!" said the master of
Brookfield. "He's back, it would seem,
and he's brought a dog."

"Do you think Vll start 'im in the Na-
tional?" Peter inquired.

"I presume so," said the master of
Brookfield. "You're to bring the Beau
home, Peter if he wins,"

"An 5 if 'e don't win?" asked Peter.

"Why, thejL," said the master of Brook-
37

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

field, "he can stay in training and try
again next year."

Three days later the mistress of Brook-
field stood with Black-Eyed Susan in the
high stone arch of the front entrance.
"You're to bring home the champion,
Peter!" she called. "Don't fail us, will
you? Susy and me? There's some light
underwear in the black bag, Jim; it may
be warm in Tennessee. Good-by . . .
Good-by, Peter. . . , Your shaving
things are in the small bag, Jim! Peter
Peter! Don't forget Susy and me
we'll be waiting!"

"No, mem," said Peter stoutly. But
as he watched the landscape slide steadily
northward the ties clicked a fearsome re-
frain: <f Little Sam!" they said, "Little
Sam!"

Grand Junction was reached at last.
Scott Benson was the first to greet
38

The Runt

them at the packed and roaring hotel.

"Well," said the master of Brcokfield,
"how does it look?"

The trainer shook his head.

"Bad, Mr. Gregory," he said. "We've
got an awful dog to beat."

"You mean the dog that old Todd's
got?" said Peter.

"Yes," said Scott. "That's what I
mean but he ain't a dog."

"What is 'e, then?" asked Peter.

"He's a flyin' machine, with a tele-
scope nose. You got a grand dog, Mr.
Gregory, a grand dog. A gamer dog
never lived he'll try all the way; but
this here dog that old fool's got a
hold of somehow ain't human. In three
hours he'll find all the quail in the
state!"

"What's 'e look like, an* W's 'e bred?"
Peter inquired.

39

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Get ready to laugh/' said Scott. "I
forgot to tell you. His breedings un-
known, an' he ain't as big as a stud
beagle."

That evening was a trial. Beau Brum-
mell seemed forgotten. The hotel lobby
echoed with the name of Little Sam.

"He must be a great dog," smiled the
master of Brookfield. "I'll enjoy seeing
him run. I think I'll turn in now, Major,
if you'll excuse me. I'm a little tired
from the trip."

Peter sat up longer, half listening to
the babble about him. At last he became
conscious of a hissing for silence as the
secretary climbed to a table top and began
to read the drawings for the National.

"Belwin with Dan's Lady!" read the

secretary, "Opal Jane with Rappahan-

nock! Bingo with Prince Rodney!" and

so the starters in the Championship were

40

The Runt

paired. At last, at the very end, the sec-
retary paused an instant and smiled
grimly. "Brookfield Beau Bruznmell with
Little Sam!" he read, and there was a
roar that shook the hotel.

Chuck Sellers leaped upon Peter and
took him to his bosom.

"Stick around, Pete!" he yelled. "Stick
around fur the big show!"

Peter shoved him aside.

"I'm goin' to bed," he growled. "I
*ope I get a decent ? oss tomorrow."

But fate had a blow in store for Peter.
In the scramble for mounts next morn^
ing, a big gray mule with a will of his
own was "wished on him" as Chuck Sel-
lers put it, and he devoted the next few
hours to equestrianship. By the time the
second brace was cast off he had con-
quered, and he saw good old Rappahan-
nock win on his courage from dashing
41

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Opal Jane, who failed to last the three
hot hours and was running slower and
slower, with a dull nose, when they took
her up.

The Championship was run off smooth-
ly. Brace after brace was put down,
until at last came Thursday morning and
the pair for which they waited.

Peter had been having an argument
with his mount, who hated to start in for
the day. When it was settled he looked
up to see an old man standing ahead of
the judges, with a lemon and white setter
who tugged and tugged to be gone. He
was small beyond belief, this setter, so
small that Peter rubbed his eyes. Then
he rode down the line of horsemen until
he found Chuck Sellers.

"Don't tell me that's 'im, Chuck?" he
said.

"That's him/' said Chuck.
42

The Runt

"Why, a bunch of grass'll stop 'im!"
said Peter. " 'E ain't big enough to jump
it."

"He don't jump nothin'/' Chuck in-
formed him. "He's got wings."

"'E may lose 'em before three hours,"
said Peter. "'Im an' 'is breedin' un-
known."

"Maybe," said Chuck. "Here's the
dog to clip 'em, or it can't be done," and
he pointed to Beau Brummell going out
to his position.

He was still the wonder dog, a glory
every inch of him, and a murmur of ad-
miration rippled down the line of horse-
men. . , . Peter felt a sudden glow of
pride and hope.

But it didn't last. The next moment

he was watching a white speck fade away

across the stubble. As it grew dimmer

and dimmer so did Peter's hopes. The

43

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

white speck was Little Sam, breeding un-
known. WJien he whirled and came to
point, at the far edge of the woods, Brook-
field Beau Brummell was a hundred feet
behind.

Peter was among the stragglers in the
stampede across the field which followed.
When he reached the mass of waiting
horsemen, Old Man Todd was being
helped out of his saddle to shoot over his
dog.

With a feeling of numb despair Peter
looked for the master of Brookfield. He
saw him at last, sitting his horse a little
apart from the crowd, his face the color
of ashes.

Peter rode to him quickly.

"What's the matter, sir?" he asked.
"Are you unwell?"

The master of Brookfield kept his eyes
on the pointing dog.
44

The Runt

"Look!" he said, "look!" And Peter
looked at Little Sam. Then his heart
skipped a beat, fluttered, and sent the
blood surging against his eardrums.

Little Sam had his bevy nailed. He
stood as though of stone. He looked like
white marble against the dark of the
woods. And on his side, his left and
nearest side, was a perfect lemon dumb-
bell. . . .

"My Gawd !" said Peter. "My Gawd!"

He swung his eyes along the woods and
found another statue. It was Beau
Brummell, still as death itself, in honor
of his brace mate.

"My Gawd!" said Peter again.
"What'll we do?"

"Nothing now" said the master of
Brookfield. "Let the best dog win."

A man should only whisper while the
championship is run, but Peter rose in his
45

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

stirrups, not fifty feet from a brace on
point, and disgraced himself forever.

"My money's on the old dog's blood,"
he howled; "ari let the best dog win!"

"Peter! Peter!" said the master of
Brookfield, and took him by the arm.

"I forgot," said Peter sheepishly.

There have been field trials in the past,
there will be field trials in the future. But
those who saw the whirlwind struggle be-
tween the great Beau Brummell and the
white ghost with the magic nose will not
listen while you tell of them. Eighteen
bevies they found that day, and they went
at top speed to do it. Not a bird was
flushed as they flashed into point after
dazzling point, backing each other like
gentlemen.

It was perfect bird work, done with
marvelous speed, and the Beau had the
sympathy of those who watched, for they
46

The Runt

knew that he was beaten, He had every-
thing that makes a champion, including
looks and heart. But the little white dog
who skimmed from one covey to the next
was more than a champion he was a
miracle. The blazing soul of Roderigo
had leaped to life in this, his son, and
would not be denied.

An hour or more had passed when
Chuck Sellers thought of Peter and
sought him out to offer what consolation
he could.

"The little dog may quit, Pete/' he
said, "any time now. It's the last half
that tells on the short-bred ones,"

Then Peter gave the puzzled Chuck a
wide calm smile.

"Nothing is certain in this 'ere world,"
he said. "But I'll tell you one thing that
is. That little dog won't quit till the
pads wear off his feet."
47

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

And Peter was right. The announce-
ment of the new champion finished with
"breeding unknown."

The crowd swarmed toward the win-
ner, who grinned as they closed about him.
They had never seen a National Cham-
pion without a pedigree^ and they pushed
and pulled and laughed and hooted.

A Field reporter was yelling at Old
Man Todd above the noise.

"The country wants to know this dog's
breeding, old man/' he said, "And it's
got to be traced, if possible."

"He am' got no breeding I tell you!"
screamed Old Man Todd. "He's a nig-
gah-raised dawg jes' a niggah-raised
dawg!"

The runt was frightened. It must be
terrible to be a nigger-raised dog, or all
these men wouldn't glare at him and yell!
He remembered leaving the place where

The Runt

the big house was, long ago, and riding
on a train. He remembered running for
miles and miles until he had found that
nice shed where he could rest. A black
man had come to the shed and given him
some milk. He drank it all and went to
sleep.

Next he remembered hunting birds
with the black man every day. One day
an old man had watched him find some
birds and had talked with the black man.
Then he was taken away by the old man,
and had hunted birds with him ever
since*

They had had a good hunt today. But
now he was tired, and they all yelled at
him so Then someone pushed and
fought his way through the crowd, and
the runt was glad to see him, for it was
Peter, whom he had followed long ago.

The runt went to him quickly, and
49

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Peter fell on one knee and put an arm
about him.

"Runt!" said Peter. "Runt! You're
yer daddy's own son!"

The runt grinned, and Peter put him
down and took hold of the leash.

"Let go of this, Old Man/' he said.

It is not a good thing to win the cham-
pionship with a "niggah-raised" dog when
that dog has been advertised over an en-
tire state as lost. Old Man Todd looked
into Peter's eyes.

"Why why " he began, and stopped.
Then his fingers unclosed from the leash
and he backed slowly into the crowd.

Peter whirled about and faced the re-
porter, with the runt close at his side.

"Now, Mr. Reporter/' he said, "you

can put in your paper that Brookfield

Dumb-Bell by Champion Brookfield Rod-

erigo 'as won the National. You can say

50

The Rum

the new champion is out of Brookfield
'Ighland Lassie, You can tell 'em 'e was
bred and whelped at Brookfield and
now Vs goin' 'ome."

The reporter was dancing up and down.
His face was red and he had lost his hat.

"How can I verify this?" he yelled.
"How can I verify this?"

Suddenly the runt saw the tall man who
lived in the big house he dimly remem-
bered. He had always been afraid of the
tall man he was so quiet. He was quiet
now. He didn't yell at all, but when he
held up his hand everybody kept still.

"I can verify it for you," he said,

"Mr. Gregory!" said the reporter.
"Good, very good excellent! Will you
let me have the facts as quickly as pos-
sible, please? I've got to catch the even-
ing papers !"

Peter didn't stay to hear what the tall

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

man said, and the runt was glad for he
was tired. But Peter put him on a train
and he couldn't sleep it jiggled so, and
the baggage man gave him part of his sup-
per. When other men came into the car,
the baggage man pointed to him and said
something about "National Champion/'
and "worth ten thousand dollars," and the
men came and stared at the runt.

At last they got out of the train, and
he and Peter and the tall man rode in an
automobile till they went through some
gates, and the runt saw the lights of the
big house shining through the trees.

"Where shall I take him," asked Peter,
"to the kennels?"

The tall man dropped his hand on the
runt's head.

"I think not, Peter," he said; and they
all got out at the front door.

As they came into the hall someone
52

The Runt

called from upstairs, and the runt recog-
nized the voice of the pretty lady.

"Oh, Jim!' 5 said the voice. "Why didn't
you wire? Did Beau Brummell win?"

"No," said the tall man. "He was run-
ner up,"

"Oh!" said the voice, and then nothing
more for a while, and the runt could hear
the big clock ticking in the hall.

"Is Peter there?" said the voice at last.

"Yes, mem," said Peter.

"You went back on Susy and me, didn't
you, Peter?" said the voice.

"Come down here, Chief!" said the tall
man. "Unleash him!" he directed in a
low voice, and Peter did so.

The runt threw up his head and sniffed.
He was so tired by now that his legs were
beginning to shake, and he wanted a place
to lie down . . . then suddenly he re-
membered. He walked to the living-room

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

and peered in. ... Yes, there was his
friend the chair, holding out its arms to
him. . . . The runt gave a deep sigh as
he curled himself into it.

The tall man who had followed laughed
softly.

"And that's all right!" he said.

Just then the pretty lady came in,

"Why what dog is that?" she asked.

"Don't you know?" said the tall man.

The pretty lady stared at the runt very
hard. He became uneasy, and grinned.
The pretty lady shrieked and ran to him.

"Little mannie!" she said, hugging him
until he could feel her heart beating
against his side. "Where did they find
you, little mannie?"

"At Grand Junction," said the tall
man.

"What was he doing there?" asked the
pretty lady.

The Runt

"A good deal/' said the tall man.

The pretty lady gave the runt a last
big squeeze, then she straightened up,

"Oh, Runt!" she said. "Darling Runt
you're just as bad as ever!" She put
her hand on his collar. "Come!" she said.
"This place isn't for you."

But the tall man stepped forward, and
took her hand from the collar. His eyes
were shining queerly and his voice was
husky.

"Let him alone, my dear!" he said.
"Let him alone!"

It was nice of the tall man to do this,
thought the runt. He must have known
how tired, how very tired, he was. He
curled himself deep in the chair and began
to snore, ... In his dreams he heard
the tall man talking, and then the pretty
lady bent above him, and a wet drop fell
on his nose.

55

A RELUCTANT TRAVELER

II

A RELUCTANT TRAVELER

LEON" A was a Catholic, Also,
adored church weddings. Also, she
was aided and abetted in her madness,
and Peter was sunk in gloom.

From the bottom of his soul he favored
an unostentatious, not to say stealthy,
visit to the justice of the peace. Why
prolong this hour of pain? Why be batch-
ered to make a Brookfield holiday?

Beyond all doubt his new shoes would
hurt him. His boiled shirt would creak
when he breathed. He would har/e to
wear suspenders, which he loathed, and
lately there had been a growing murmur
in favor of kid gloves.

His collar would choke him; Kiit this
59

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

would be a transitory affliction. Nature,
kind nature, would aid him here: before,
during, and immediately following the
ceremony he would, as he told himself,
"sweat to beat 'ell."

He was justified in this prophecy. At
the mere recollection of the wedding of
Felix and Minnie he broke into a gentle
perspiration. He remembered how that
laundress, the fat one, who was by nature
a tearful person, had turned the ceremony
into a cataclysm of grief. He remem-
bered how at the dance which followed
the wedding he himself had been forced
to take a turn with the bride, and how,
after one round of the carriage house, she
had informed him that it was lucky she
was going to Niagara Falls because it was
now doubtful if she could ever find enough
cold water to relieve her feet.

Well, at any rate, there would be no
60

A Reluctant Traveler

trip to Niagara Falls for him ; there were
certain limits beyond which he would not
be driven. Leona had suggested it, of
course. But the new brick cottage near
the kennels was finished and furnished
and waiting. He would make no "'oly
show" of himself at the station, "dodgin'
shoes an' such!" That was final.

Then one morning he was passing the
stables and was halted by a harrowing
spectacle. The doors of the carriage house
stood open. Clustered about the victoria
was a chattering feminine group who bent
to their dreadful task with giggles and
much white ribbon.

Between a rage and a panic Peter
sought the master of Brookfield.

"Beggin' your pardon," he began.
"But this 'ere 'as gone far enough."

The master of Brookfield was spending
a dreamy hour in the gun room among
61

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

a welter of firearms, fishing tackle, the
game heads of four continents, and the
smell of oil and leather. He looked up
vaguely from a battered tin box choked
with salmon flies, and blinked at Peter.

"If that's the case, let's stop it," he said.
"But what are you talking about?"

Peter raised a quivering finger. "I am
a plain man!" he roared.

"Granted," said the master of Brook-
field.

"I'm no frog-eatin' French shofer!"

"True," said the master of Brookfield.

"An 5 ," declared Peter, "I'll not drive
'ome in nothing with ribbons on it!"

The master of Brookfield picked up a
patent reel and turned quickly to the
window. He became absorbed in the
reel's mechanism for some moments.

At last, with his back to Peter, he
spoke. "I suppose you've told Leona?"
62

A Reluctant Traveler

"I 'ave not," said Peter, "an' 'ere's
why: She 'as every female on the place
behind 'er. I 'ave gave up on this 'ere
church notion, with 'alf the town there an'
Father Vincent in 'is shirt tail sayin' 'okus
pokus at me. I 'ave gave up on kid gloves.
I 'ave gave up on 'avin' a stinkin' posy
pinned to me. But drivin' 'ome in a
bloomin' birdcage is more than I will
do."

"Well, that settles it, doesn't it? Why
do you come to me?"

Peter glanced cautiously about him,
and directed a meaning look at the master
of Brookfield. "Be'ind all this/' he con-
fided hoarsely, "is the missus!"

"Ah!" said the master of Brookfield.

"Could you now/' said Peter, "be of
*elp to me in that quarter?"

The master of Brookfield shook with a
sudden spasm of coughing. When he
63

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

was sufficiently recovered he extended his
hand to Peter.

"We'll make a try of it," he said. "But
I'm afraid we don't amount to much at a
time like this, Peter. 5 '

A moment later they were advancing
manfully on the breakfast-room.

"Chief/' began the master of Brook-
field, "we have a complaint to make."

Mrs. Gregory broke a French roll
crisply in haif.

"The cream, please, Leona," she said.
"Well, what is it?" she inquired over her
coffee cup.

"Peter shrinks from the spectacular,"
explained the master of Brookfield. "He
is a believer in er quiet simplicity. He
objects* particularly, to ribbons on his
carriage. Couldn't you get along without
this feature?"

As the last words fell from the lips of
64

A Reluctant Traveler

the master of Brookfield, Leona forgot a
lifetime's training. She shot one venom-
ous glance at Peter, and burst into
tears.

"Like that he is!" she sobbed. "Al-
ways like that he is. Nothing does he
think of but p-p-puppies." She made a
hasty clutch at her apron and the cream
jug tilted a yellow pool straight into Mrs.
Gregory's lap. "Ah !" came a wail of hor-
ror from Leona. "Pardon, madam."

Confusion and the flourishing of nap-
kins followed. Despite them, when the
mistress of Brookfield could rise from the
table the front of her morning gown was
a woeful sight. She patted the grief-
stricken Leona reassuringly, and turned
to Peter.

"Now, I hope you're satisfied!" She
said, and swept from the room.

"You see?" said the master of Brook-
65

Dumb -Bell of Broofyfield

field when they were safely in the gun-
room once more.

Peter nodded gloomily. "Oh, IVe gave
up on that," he said; "but you 'ear me
now I'll not go to Nihagara Falls!"

Leona had accused Peter of thinking
only of puppies. This, however, was not
true. For instance, as his wedding day
drew near he was particularly concerned
over Peg o' My Heart, who was on the
verge of motherhood and who turned list-
lessly from the most tempting morsels
he could offer.

"What is it, old lady?" asked Peter.
"'Ere's a nice piece of liver now. Be a
good gel and take it! No? Well 'ow
about this good warm milk? The little
'uns'll need it. Come on now, Peggy
dear!"

At his urging Peggy sniffed at the milk
66

A Reluctant Traveler

bowl, then lapped a swallow or two. She
drew back, thanked Peter with a wave of
her tail, and sank down into the straw.

Peter lifted her muzzle and stared into
her eyes. He found them dark and glit-
tering, and his own narrowed with anxi-
ety.

"What is it?" he asked once more, and
Peggy voiced her trouble with a gentle
whine. "Yes, I know," Peter told her
softly; but this was not the truth. He
could only, like the most pompous of
whiskered medicos, guess and guess
again.

However, he got his thermometer from
the medicine chest, and shook his head
over the tiny line of quicksilver a moment
later. . . . This much he knew: Brook-
field Peg o' My Heart, bench and field
trial winner, with the blood of twenty
champions in her veins, faced her ac-

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

couchement with a temperature of one
hundred and three.

Peter looked up from the thermometer
to find Leona standing in the doorway.
She had a slim white box in her hand and
a warm, shy look in her eyes.

"For you/' she said. "From me. To-
morrow you wear it when when " She
became speechless, flushing hotly.

Peter took the box automatically,
opened it and beheld a lavender tie of
knitted silk. He gazed at the tie vaguely
for a moment, replaced the cover, and put
the box in his pocket.

"This 'ere bitch," he said, "ain't weU
by no means." He stooped over Peg o'
My Heart. "If you're going to the 'ouse,"
he threw over his shoulder, "telephone
Slosson to come out 'ere.' 1

The warm, shy look fled swiftly from
Leona's eyes. The flush left her cheek*
68

A Reluctant Traveler

as they paled with indignation. She had
knitted the tie with her own fair hands
and had gone back through rows and rows
to recover a stitch not even dropped but
loosely woven.

A silence that bristled followed Peter's
words. At last he glanced her way.

"Did you 'ear me?" he inquired, and
was shocked by the countenance of his
bride-to-be. Wrath blazed in her eyes.
Scorn curled her lips. Her chin quivered
ominously. Even as he opened his lips to
ascertain the cause of her displeasure she
turned stiffly from him and was gone.

Peter regarded the empty doorway for
a moment with a puzzled frown.

"Now what?" he said aloud. Then he
shut his jaws. "If it's Nihagara Falls/'
he muttered, "she can take on till the cows
come 'omf- 'er an' the missus, too."

He spent the next few hours with Peg
69

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

o' My Heart, and Powder and Shot
howled a protest to him as he passed their
runway. They were the pick of the first
litter by Brookfield Dumb-Bell, were
through with yard breaking, and should
have gone afield that day.

"I'll thank you for less noise," Peter
told them. "You'll get your run tomor-
row. " He made the promise in good faith,
and then it dawned on him what day to-
morrow was. He grinned sheepishly*
"On the 'ole," he decided, staring at the
wildly eager Powder and Shot, "I'll 'ave
my 'ands full tomorrow, I expect."

Then he remembered that Peg o' My
Heart had never had distemper. She
showed no signs of the disease, but he did
not know what ailed her as yet, and until
her malady developed these youngsters
would be better farther from the whelp-
ing shed. He put them on leash and took
70

A Reluctant Traveler

them to a runway at the extreme end of
the line.

"In you go/' he said, and closed the
gate in their despairing faces.

Through such small incidents as this
come large affairs. The runways at
Brookfield have two feet of grouting be-
low the fences. In this particular run-
way the frost had been at work that win-
ter. It had lifted the grouting and forced
up the east fence several inches. Peter
had noticed this some months before and
had removed the inmate of the runway
also the loose grouting, intending to repair
the damage Jtater.

And now, with the pressure of events
distracting him, he had forgotten; and
Powder and Shot, after a careful inspec-
tion of their new quarters, set joyfully to
work. Inside that fence was a dreary
world in which the hours dragged by on
71

Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

leaden feet. Outside was a heaven con-
taining Peter and the rolling fields. To
reach it one must dig industriously; but
what was a little digging?

They dug until the moon came up to
watch their labors. They rested toward
morning, and when the sun rose a kennel
boy brought them food and went his way,
and then for hours they were undisturbed,

It was queer how quiet it was at the
kennels. They missed Peter's morning
inspection. They missed his footsteps
and his voice and his whistle. Well, he
was somewhere outside, that was certain.
. . . The situation seemed to require more
digging.

By nine o'clock, Powder, who was a
shade the smaller, squeezed, with a whim-
per of excitement, to freedom.

Shot wailed in agony and flung himself
at the hole. By a desperate effort he won
72

A Reluctant Traveler

through, leaving a tuft of hair behind him.

He gave a triumphant yelp, then shot
down the line of runways. He met Pow-
der, a white flash, returning, and together
they explored the kennel house. The
scent of Peter was all about, but Peter
himself was strangely absent. Well, he
had worked them over the marshy ground
by the creek the last time he had taken
them out. There were snipe in the marsh.
Perhaps Peter was looking for snipe ! . . .
They went over the hill toward the marsh
like twin streaks.

Peter was not at the marsh, but they
found a fat jacksnipe, and they chased it
madly across the oozy meadows while the
snipe said: "Scai-ip! Scai-ip!" and they
acquired a coating of black muck and
green slime.

The snipe became disgusted at last and
disappeared in the sky, and their thoughts
73

Dumb -Bell of Broofyfield

returned uneasily to Peter. They had
chased, which was wrong. Guilt was
heavy on their souls. They must find
Peter, take a whipping if necessary, and
be forgiven.

They turned homeward and scoured the
place from end to end. At last Shot
found a trace of Peter in the drive. He
followed the scent until it disappeared
unaccountably. It was replaced by the
smell of rubber tires. Ah, that was it!
Peter had gone away on the thing that
made the rubber smell. To find Peter it
was necessary to follow the rubber smell.
He explained this to Powder, and a mo-
ment later they arrived at the main gates
and the wide road leading out into the
world.

They hesitated here. They had never
been off the place before. It was a tre-
mendous venture; but the trail of the
74

A Reluctant Traveler

rubber smell led straight away from the
gates. They sniffed at it, whined anx-
iously, then slowly it drew them on.

There had been friction between the
groom and the best man. It had de-
veloped over the groom's toilet. In par-
ticular, a fawn-colored waistcoat which
the best man had extracted from his own
wardrobe had proved an irritant. It had
taken all of ten minutes to persuade the
groom that its splendors would not trans-
form its wearer into a "'oly show."

At last this was accomplished, a coat
was slipped on over the waistcoat, and a
whisk broom applied to the tout ensemble.

"An' now," said Peter ungratefully, "I
'ope to Gawd you're through."

Griggs, the butler, stepped back and
surveyed his work with growing pride.
He had felt his task to be hopeless until
75

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

now; but he had builded better than he
knew. The result surprised him.

"Not bad," he said, revolving slowly and
with half shut eyes about Peter's person.
"Very genteel, I should say, if you ask
me. Try to stand more as if you was
made of something besides cement."

He smoothed a lapel, tweaked the lav-
ender silk tie, and withdrew a boutonniere
from Peter's shaving mug.

"Mrs. Gregory's orders," he said firmly,
as he pinned the flowers to a shrinking
bosom. "If you'd take things as they
come," he suggested, "you'd 'elp appear-
ances by sweating less profuse."

A gleam of satisfaction flickered for an
instant in Peter's dripping countenance.

"I'll 'andle that matter to suit myself,"
he stated.

Griggs consulted his watch.

"Well, take 'old of yourself," he ad-
76

A Reluctant Traveler

vised. "I must 'ave you at the church in
ten minutes. 'Ere's the motor now. . . .
Kindly put that chewing tobacco back
where you got it!"

Ten minutes later Peter was staring
fixedly at nothing. His eyes were glazed,
his knees shook, his hands had become ex-
traordinarily prominent. There stretched
before him a white-ribboned aisle that cut
a blurred mass of rustling, whispering,
staring humanity squarely in half. All
Brookfield was there, of course, and most
of the village besides; but Peter knew
them not as individuals. They were noth-
ing but eyes, devouring eyes, that feasted
on the very soul of him as it palpitated
somewhere beneath the fawn-colored
waistcoat.

Then a face swam out of the blurred
mass before him, and it was the face of
the master of Brookfield, and it grinned
77

Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

mockingly at Mm and then faded away.

There was a sort of moaning sound,
and Peter knew that it came from the
organ, and then the church door filled and
there bore down on him a floating cloudy
whiteness, and somewhere in it was a
new pair of eyes, big and blue and mys-
terious.

The mistress of Brookfield cooed once
with delight.

"Isn't she adorable, Jim?" she gasped.
"And Peter, I'm proud of Peter, too. . . .
It's going splendidly!"

The master of Brookfield gave the bride
a brief glance. Then his fascinated eye
swung back and settled on a lavender tie,
white boutonniere and fawn-colored waist-
coat.

"Superb!" he murmured, and bowed his
head in the darkest corner of the pew. He
looked up at last just as Father Vincent
78

A Reluctant Traveler

rolled forth the first sonorous Latin of
the service.

Then the master of Brookfield became
conscious of a vague and rustling murmur
from the back of the church. He heard
the booming voice of Father Vincent fal-
ter. He turned toward the growing mur-
mur, and a look of such unhallowed joy
came into his face that the mistress of
Brookfield marveled, and quickly fol-
lowed his glance with her own* Her face
froze with horror as she did so.

Down the ribboned aisle, the rubber
smell discarded for the more certain scent
of Peter's footsteps, came two animated
mops of dust and swamp ooze. They
came swiftly, surely, and they threw them-
selves with abandon at Peter, whom they
had come so far to find.

The next few moments were full to
overflowing. It is a pleasure to record
79

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

that the best man was equal to the emer-
gency. He plunged to the rescue of the
groom or was it the fawn-colored waist-
coat? at the expense of his own apparel.
He succeeded in fastening a pudgy hand
on Powder's collar, but the fingers of his
other hand closed wildly on one of Shot's
long, silky, sensitive ears, and Shot raised
his voice in a despairing wail.

Father Vincent had thus far proved
his mettle. He had no more than hesi-
tated for an instant at the first whirl-
wind entrance of the puppies. Then,
without a visible tremor, he continued the
service.

But now the groom was moved to
speech. He glared once at the worthy
Griggs, and addressed Father Vincent
briefly.

"'Old your 'orses," he said. He whirled
and advanced on the best man, and fire
80

A Reluctant Traveler

was in his eye, "'Aven't you no sense?"
he inquired. "Do you think you can 'old
a setter by the ear. 'E ain't a 'og nor yet
a calf! Leggo of 'im!"

Griggs obeyed, and Shot flew to his
rescuer with a whine of gratitude.

"'Ow," said Peter, advancing another
step, "would you like for a big fat-'anded
bum to take 'old of your ear?"

Griggs backed hurriedly against the
chancel railing, still holding Powder me-
chanically by the collar. Peter pointed
to the puppy.

"Leggo of 'im, too/' he ordered, and
Griggs's nerveless fingers unclosed from
the collar.

"A setter's ear," explained Peter to
the awestricken front pews, "is that deli-
cate it ought never to be touched, 'ardly,
let alone 'anging to it."

At these words a distressing thing oc-
81

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

curred. For some moments the master
of Brookfield, unnoticed for the time
being, had been rocking back and forth as
though in terrible agony. But now at-
tention swung his way, for there burst
from him a sound difficult to describe. It
was as though a hen, afflicted with bron-
chitis, were attempting to cackle. That
he was suffering there could be no doubt,
for he writhed in his seat. Quite suddenly
he disappeared altogether, and those near-
est him realized that he had collapsed en-
tirely, and now half sat, half lay, in the
corner of the pew.

The mistress of Brookfield bent over
him. Her attitude was one of tender so-
licitude. It was deceiving, however.

"Jim Gregory/' she hissed, "sit up this
instant !"

Strange words, harsh words, to a man
overtaken by a dire seizure, and the mas-
82

A Reluctant Traveler

ter of Brookfield sent back a husky ap-
peal for mercy.

" 'I am dying, Egypt, dying/ " he in-
formed her.

His life partner proved herself a cruel,
a heartless woman. She straightened up
and sat stiffly erect, coldly, proudly pale.

"I'll not forgive you!" she told him,
looking straight before her, and added,
regardless of her grammar, "Never!"

All this is minor detail. The central
figure was Peter, who proved at this
moment his right to the attention of the
audience. He turned from the abashed
and shrinking Griggs and uttered one
word.

"'Eel !" he said.

Powder and Shot now did their mentor
proud. They obeyed the command in-
stantly, and halted just behind Peter, one
to the right, one to the left of him. Peter
83

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

took his place at Leona's side, the puppies
following.

"Charge!" he ordered.

Powder and Shot sank dutifully down
behind him. Peter gave Father Vincent
a look of supreme triumph.

"'Ow's that/' he inquired in a confiden-
tial whisper, "for only eight months?"

Father Vincent did not reply. His
face, which had been cherry red, became
a vivid purple. Above all else he wished
to meet the eye of the master of Brook-
field. He knew, however, that to do so
would be fatal. He made a supreme
effort.

"Join hands," he directed; and then,
despite the countenance of the bride,
which seemed to hold in check the light-
ning's blast, he went on with the service,
while Powder and Shot, their heads tilt-
ing now and then to hear the better, gave
84

A Reluctant Traveler

his flowing Latin a close, a respectful
.attention.

They were good. They were good as
gold, and Peter swelled with pride. His
face shone with it as he turned at last
from the altar, a bachelor no longer.
There remained, however, the long jour-
ney down a lane of whispering humans.
Would Powder and Shot stand this acid
test?

"'Eel!" commanded Peter with some
anxiety. He was rewarded by such
prompt obedience that he was reassured,
He began the march down the aisle in
visible triumph. Then, as he passed the
pew wherein was the mistress of Brook-
field, he received a dagger glance that
made him falter. He looked uneasily be-
hind him to see if the puppies were at heel.
They were; but Leona, unfortunately*
was three paces in the rear of them.
85

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Then Peter remembered. He had been
told to bear his bride from the altar on
his right arm. He slackened his pace
tzntil she came abreast of him, then poked
his elbow at her invitingly.

"'Eer," he muttered, "take 'old of this!"

And then Leona repudiated her mar-
riage vows with startling swiftness. The
echo of her promise to obey had scarcely
ceased to whisper from the vaulted ceil-
ing, yet at this first connubial command
she became insurgent. She shrank from
Peter's offered arm as though it were an
adder. Without acknowledging his pres-
ence by so much as the quiver of an eye-
lash, she swept on at Peter's side, to be
sure, but as far from physical contact with
him as the width of the aisle would permit.

They reached the door at last, to find
the victoria and a pair of hunters, pressed
into unaccustomed service, waiting at the
86

A Reluctant Traveler

curb. Peter surveyed the victoria dubi
ously. Once, long ago, it had been Brools>
field's pride. He glanced from its cloth
upholstering to the bedraggled Powder
and Shot. The comparison was odious;
but this was an emergency, and what must
be must be.

"I'll keep 'em on the floor like," he ex-
plained to old Marcus, who was on the
box. "They'd be 'ell-'ooping over 'alf the
country if I let 'em go. 'Op in!" he told
Leona, "an' 'old on to one of ? em when I
'and 'im to you."

Then, for the first time in her married
life, Leona addressed her husband.

"Assassin!" she gasped, and fled.

Peter's mouth opened with amazement
as he watched her. She went as though
pursued, her veil trailing behind her, her
hands clasped at her bosom. As she
reached the Brookfield limousine she
87

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

swerved, climbed wildly in, and sank, a
uobbing heap, into the deep cushions of
the back seat.

Peter's mouth was still open as the mis-
tress of Brookfield appeared hurriedly in
the church door. Her eyes swept past the
'dctoria and caught the huddled figure in
the limousine. She favored Peter with
one crushing look as she flew to Leona's
side.

The master of Brookfield followed her
leisurely. As he reached the car its door
closed in his face.

"Home, Felix," said the mistress of
Brookfield succinctly, and the big car
rolled like a battleship from the curb.

Peter and the master of Brookfield
watched it until it turned the corner and
disappeared. Then their eyes met.

Peter put Powder and Shot into the
victoria, climbed in himself, and looked
88

A Reluctant Traveler

uncertainly at the master of Brookfield.

"'Ow about a lift?" he suggested with
an apologetic glance at the bows of white
ribbon which gleamed like snow against
the dark running gear of the victoria.

The master of Brookfield accepted the
invitation with alacrity.

"You're on," he said with a gleam.

At the end of two strenuously tearful
hours the mistress of Brookfield had suc-
ceeded in convincing the bride that her
life was not wrecked beyond repair.

"And now," said the mistress of Brook-
field, "drink your tea and no more crying.
I'll see that you have your wedding trip,"

"Yes, madam," said Leona.

"I'm going to send for Peter now. You
can leave on the six o'clock train tonight."

"To Niagara Falls we will go,
madam?" questioned Leona.
89

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"If you prefer/' promised the mistress
of Brookfield, and was rewarded by a
quivering smile.

When Peter entered, hat in hand, a
few moments later, he, too, was smiling.
He beamed joyfully at Leona and the
mistress of Brookfield.

"The Peg bitch," he said, "'as 'ad six
grand pups. 'Er fever's gone down, an'
Slosson says shell be 'erself in no time.
'E thinks mebby as 9 ow "

"Peter," cried the mistress of Brook-
field, "stop this instant! There, there,"
she said soothingly to Leona, "he doesn't
mean it. Don't you dare," she threw at
Peter, "mention dogs again!"

Peter swallowed hastily, reached for his
chewing tobacco, recollected himself in
time, and touched his forehead.

"No, mem," he said dazedly.

Thwe was a moment's pause.
90

A Reluctant Traveler

"Peter," said the mistress of Brookfield
at last, "are you fond of Leona?"

Peter blushed to the roots of his hair
and dropped his eyes. He raised them
then until they met a pair of moist blue
ones, into which he gazed.

"Why/' he burst out suddenly, "she's
just the finest gel that ever stood on
two legs!"

"Yes," said the mistress of Brookfield.
"Now give her a kiss." She became busy
at her desk for a moment, then turned to
Peter and put a folded piece of paper in
his hand. "You're going on a little trip
together," she explained. "You leave at
six o'clock. Drive to town now and have
that cashed."

Peter's face fell as he unfolded the
paper mechanically. He brightened some-
what when his eye took in the check's
figures.

91

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Why, now/' he said, "I've been think-
ing as 'ow I'd like to go down to Chuck
Sellers ? s place in Tennessee. 'E's got a
strain of these 'ere Pointin' Griffons 'e
wants me to look over."

A quavering moan came from Leona.
The mistress of Brookfield shot Peter an
icy glance.

"You will go," she said frigidly, "to
Niagara Falls. Felix will take you to the
train/'

"Yes, mem," said Peter, and withdrew.

At five forty-five that evening he strug-
gled with a bulging suitcase into the
limousine and took his seat beside his
beaming bride.

The master of Brookfield strolled out
of the dusk, cigarette in hand, and halted
by the car.

"Where to now?" he inquired.

"Nihagara Falls," said Peter.
92

A Reluctant Traveler

"But I thought " began the master of
Brookfield.

Peter kicked the suitcase viciously, and
slumped down in his seat.

"Oh, I've gave up on that" he said.

DUMB-BELL'S CHECK

Ill

DUMB-BELL'S CHECK

DURING the summer months early
dinner was the custom at Brook-
field. It was served out of doors, weather
permitting, either on the terrace or be-
neath the canopy of vines which crept with
artful abandon from end to end of the per-
gola.

In the latter case it meant that the mas-
ter and mistress of Brookfield were alone
and it would be a "cozy" dinner, as they
called it, hidden from the many staring
windows of the big house by the dumb
and eyeless vine.

At such times those who served them
did so swiftly, and withdrew. Then they
helped themselves and stole choice mor-
97

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

sels from each other's plates, and giggled,
and "scrapped," as in days gone by, and
sometimes upset things, which was dread-
ful. But no one would come except at
the voice of the silver bell with the
carved ivory handle, and they were care-
ful not to touch it lest its fatal clamor
occur.

"Chief/' said the master of Brookfield,
one August evening, "pass the jam!"
He indicated with a lordly gesture a
mound of currant jelly glowing in a crys-
tal dish*

Since jam had to do with childhood his
words were a challenge which Mrs. Greg-
ory at once accepted.

"Why, certainly," she said politely, and
placed a buttered ear of corn in his ex-
tended palm.

The master of Brookfield scooped a
lump of ice from his drinking goblet, en-
98

Dumb -Bell's Check

circled his lady with his arm, and drew
her slowly to him.

"It's not fair to use strength/' she
wailed. "You know it's not. You're
breaking a rule."

At that exact moment Leona stood
round-eyed in the entrance to the per-
gola.

The mistress of Brookfield became par-
ticularly dignified. She returned to her
chair unhurriedly, patted her hair, and
then addressed Leona.

"What is it?" she said. "I didn't ring."

"Peter to you weesh to speak," ex-
plained Leona with a gulp.

Mrs. Gregory looked at Leona in
amazement,

"Peter?" she said. "Why, what's got
into the man?" Then apprehension seized
her. "Is anything wrong at the kennels?"
she asked quickly. "Where is Peter?"
99

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"'Ere, mem, beggin* your pardon," said
Peter, and appeared miraculously beside
Leona. "I thought as 'ow you'd like to
see this 'ere/' he explained, as he pulled
a copy of The American Field from his
pocket. "It's just come."

"What's the matter with you, Peter?"
asked the master of Brookfield. "Have
you lost your mind?"

"No, sir, beggin' your pardon," said
Peter. "They've challenged with the big
pointer to run a three-hour match against
Dumb-Bell for a thousand dollars. It's
all in 'ere," he added, flourishing the pa-
per. "You can see for yourself."

The master of Brookfield scowled at
Peter.

"What of it?" he said. "Why do you
come here with it now?"

"Well, you see," said Peter, a shade
uncertainly, "the quicker you knew about
100

Dumb -Bell's Check

it, the quicker you could take 'em up.
You can wire yet tonight, sir."

Mrs. Gregory watched the master of
Brookfield with dancing eyes. But the
master of Brookfield did not smile. "Why
should I 'take 'em up'?" he asked.

Peter's jaw dropped.

"Why, now er " he began, and be-
came speechless as his world fell aboul
him. At last he looked up, dull-eyed. "I
never thought," he said, "as 'ow you'd
let 'em say we was afraid to race the big
'ound. ... I ax your pardon for dis-
turbin' of you." He folded the paper,
stuffed it into his pocket, and turned
slowly away. "Good night, mem," he
threw over his shoulder, and was
gone.

"Oh, Jim!" said Mrs. Gregory. "He's
heartbroken he thinks you mean it!
Peter!" she called, "Peter!" But Peter
101

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

was out of earshot, and she rang the silver
belL

While someone went to summon Peter,
the master of Brookfield wrote a tele-
gram. As he finished, Peter again ap-
peared.

"They said as 'ow you wanted me/ 3 he
muttered, looking straight before him.

"Why, yes," said the master of Brook-
field. "You left in such a hurry you for-
got to take this with you, . , , I want it
sent tonight."

Peter took the telegram and read it
carefully. He looked up with blazing eyes.

"That's tellin' 5 em!" he said. "I'll start
workin' the little dog tomorrow. We'll
need all of two months to get ? im ready
Vll 'ave to go to Ramsey for a month on
chicken."

There are two championships in which
102

Dumb -Bell 's Check

field trial dogs compete. The winning of
either means everlasting glory. One, the
National, is run in Tennessee on quail.
The other, the All America, is run in the
Far West on prairie chicken.

The winner of the National or the All
America has Champion written before his
name from that day on, and never again
may he compete in open trials. He is a
crowned king, whose sons and daughters
are of the blood royal. He may not stoop
to struggle with more common clay.

But a champion may run a match race
against any dog with the temerity to meet
him. And now Champion Brookfield
Dumb-Bell, winner of the National, had
been defied in public print by the owner
of Champion Windem Bang, winner of
the All America, and Peter was in a
fever.

The telegram he sent that night read:
103

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Meet you any time after October first, at
any place, for any sum.

And it meant that "the little white
ghost" must leave his leather chair in the
living-room and take to the open for the
honor of Brookfield.

So, early next morning, Peter, a ken-
nel boy, and the small champion went
over the hill to the broad meadows across
which the brook lay like a silver serpent.

Peter rode a good horse. Dumb-Bell
had not been hunted for pleasure as yet,
and no man on foot could keep within
sight of the ghost at his work.

"Turn 'im loose!" said Peter to the ken-
nel boy. "An* meet me by them there wil-
lows in thirty minutes."

"O-o-o-o!" said the kennel boy a mo-
ment later, his eyes on something white
fading, fading in the distance.

"'E's 'ell, ain't 'e!" said Peter, gather-
104

Dumb -Bell's Check

ing up his reins. "Come on, ? oss! You
wouldn't let a little thing like that get
away from you, would you?"

Morning after morning from then on
they went forth, and little by little the
thirty minutes were increased until at last
Dumb-Bell could do the full three hours
at top speed, wolf down his meal that
night, and ask for more.

According to science, fatigue produces
a toxin. When an animal is overworked
he cannot throw this off. The poison dulls
the nerves of his stomach and plays havoc
with his appetite. Peter knew nothing of
science, but he scanned a tin plate anx-
iously every evening. When, after the
full three hours, it was licked to mirror
brightness

"*E*s ready," said Peter, "to beat any-
body's dog!"

Meanwhile the field trial world divided
105

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

over this meeting of champions. Pointer
men prayed, in private, for big slashing,
smashing Windem Bang. In public they
admitted that perhaps the Brookfield set-
ter had a shade in nose and bird sense,
but for courage and headlong brilliancy
there was "nothing to it" but the pointer.
Furthermore, since Gregory had allowed
his adversary to name the place for the
meeting, the owner of the pointer had of
course chosen North Dakota, the home of
the prairie chicken. The country and the
birds were an old story to the pointer,
whereas the Brookfield dog was more
familiar with the haunts of quail.

Setter men thought of the white ghost
with his uncanny nose, and smiled. Their
champion was to have a month's work on
the prairies before the battle.

"And," said Scott Benson, "if they just
let him go, in a month he'll be an old
106

Dumb -Bell's Check

friend to every chicken from the Gulf to
Canada."

On one subject, however^ everyone was
in accord. Dog men all over the land
had learned to hate the owner of the
pointer. For years he had bred dogs
good dogs, they regretfully admitted
and at last fate had breathed the spirit
of a champion into one of them. Fur-
thermore, he was a great champion. This
they admitted, also, but with more than
regrets. That Emmett Fry should own
such a dog was beyond mere regretting
it was a calamity.

Chuck Sellers relieved himself on the
subject with a few well-chosen words.

"There's more class in the tip of that
pointer's tail," he said, "than Emmett's
got in his whole blame carcass."

Since the tail of Champion Windem
Bang was needle pointed, this was re-
IC7

Dumb -Bell of Brookfieid

peated broadcast and found much favor-
All this was man's talk, and not for
women's ears, so the mistress of Brook-
field heard no word of it ; but she felt cold
steel in the air when Emmett Fry was
mentioned, and it puzzled her.

"You don't like this man Fry, do you?"
she said to Gregory one morning, and felt
his arm stiffen within her own.

"I don't know him," said the master of
Brookfieid shortly. "Are you sure you
want to go out to this match, Chief? It's
a hard trip."

"I'm going," she stated. "I've never
seen Dumb-Bell run, you know, and this
may be my last chance. . . . Why don't
you like him?" she asked, returning to the
charge.

"I don't know him," he repeated. "How
can I like him or dislike him?"

She knew this to be an evasion, but let
108

Dumb -Bell's Check

it pass, and questioned Peter the next day.

"What sort of a man is Mr. Fry?" she
asked him.

Peter was dusting a puppy with flea
powder. He straightened up and spoke
with difficulty, for flea powder is as cer-
tain in its action as snuff.

"A-choo-o!" he said. "Just plain skunk
. . . a-choo-o! . . . beggin' your par-
don!"

"What has he done, what does he do,
that makes you say that, Peter?" she
questioned.

"Well," said Peter, "I'll tell you one
thing he done. Six years ago, come No-
vember, Emmett Fry starts a pointer
derby, by Damascus out of Old Rose, in
the Continental. 'E was a niee-goin' pup
but a leetle gun-shy just flinchy-like. 'E
run a good 'eat an' it was between 'im
an' a young bitch by Gladstone in the
109

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

finals. The judges were 'ard put to it for
a decision, but they noticed that Emmett
don't stand close to 'is pup when 'e fires.

" "At his next point, Mr. Fry, shoot
directly over your dog/ they tells Em-
mett, an' he done so. At the crack of the
gun the pup breaks for the woods, 'is tail
between 'is legs an' that lets 'im out.

"Well, Emmett goes into the woods
after 'is pup, an' next we 'ear 'is gun
both barrels. When 'e comes out of the
woods, . . . 'e's alone. c An',' says Em-
mett, c Vll not run away from a gun no

more.' "

Peter caught up the can of flea powder,
and bent abruptly to his work.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Gregory. "The beast
. . . the beast!"

And presently the master of Brookfield
looked up from his desk into a white and
quivering face.

110

Dumb -Bell's Check

"Good Lord, Chief!" he said, "what's
happened?"

"You knew about it all along!" she ac-
cused. "And let Dumb-Bell meet his dog
... a man like that! How could you
do such a thing! . . How could you!"

"I've never met this man," the master
of Brookfield said slowly. "When he did
. . . what he did, I used what influence
I had to have his entries refused by all
field trial clubs in America. Since then
I have made it a point never to enter a
dog where he was a competitor. But now
it is a question of setter against pointer;
and because I believe in the setter as the
greatest of all bird dogs, and many men
agree with me and look to my dog to
prove it, we owe it to them to beat this
pointer if we can. . . . Don't you think
so?"

There was a moment's silence.
Ill

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"What about the thousand dollars
you may win from him?"

The master of Brookfield regarded her
gravely. Then the corners of his mouth
twitched ever so little,

"Why/ 3 he said, with a bow, "you may
have that, Chief/'

She had him by the coat lapels in an
instant, and did her futile best to shake
him.

"I'll tear it up!" she said, between her
teeth.

"Indeed?" said Gregory* "And what
about that family on Rock Ridge who
haven't a shoe to their back, and the
lame man who needs a wooden leg or
an aeroplane or something, and the wom-
an who has delirium trem Excuse
me, it's her husband isn't it? And that
girl who should have her voice culti-
vated, and er all the rest of 5 em?"
112

Dumb -Bell's Check

The mistress of Brookfield knitted her
brows in thought,

"They won't get a cent of it!" she an-
nounced at last. "If Dumb-Bell wins it,
he wiU send it to the S. P. C. A!"

The hotel at Belmont, North Dakota,
was packed to bursting. Its occupants
lifted up their voices and discussed bird
dogs, past, present, and to come. The
noise was bewildering. From a little
distance it sounded like the roar of fall-
ing waters, and seemed as endless.

Back in the kennels it was compara-
tively quiet. Derbys might bay a neigh-
bor, old veterans might rustle the straw
as they dreamed of whirring birds; but
though the match between Brookfield
Dumb-Bell and Windem Bang was to
be run as a final to the Great Western
Trials, and a hundred dogs were all
113

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

about them, Peter spoke almost in a
whisper to Bill Ramsey as they exam-
ined the white ghost by lantern light.

"I don't like it!" said Peter. " 'E
never ate a bite. ... 'Is eyes don't look
good to me, neither."

"Pshaw, Pete!" said Ramsey. "There's
notbin' wrong with him. He knows
whjT he's here as well as you an' me.
He's excited, that's all. Why, look how
you passed up them ham an' eggs your-
self tonight! Let him alone let him
get his rest!"

"Feel 'is nose!" said Peter, "An'
why don't 'e lie down like Vd ought?"

Ramsey took Peter by the arm.

"Come on out of here!" he urged. "If
a big mutt was to keep a-rubbin' at your
nose you wouldn't go to sleep, neither.
He'll run his race if you let him alone.
If you mess with him all night Emmett'll
114

Dumb -Bell 's Check

beat me tomorrow. Fue got charge of
this dog . . . now, come on out of here!"

So Peter, with a last troubled look at
the suspiciously bright eyes of the Brook-
field champion, followed the handler
from the kennels; and Dumb-Bell
dropped his head on his paws to pass
the night in a twitching and uneasy
slumber.

A pale blue sky appeared next morn-
ing and hung above an endless rolling
stubble. Two months before this stubble
had been wheat, a golden guaranty that
North Dakota could put bread into the
mouths of half a continent. But the
gold had been garnered and now in its
place was a lesser metal, for the stubble
was heavy with frost and the rising sun
had turned it to a plain of glistening
silver.

Calm to majesty was this plain of sil-
115

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

ver, unruffled by the fact that it would
soon become a battlefield. The last day
of the Great Western Trials had ar-
rived; two champions would meet that
morning, and over the stubble would
prove the mettle of their sires.

When the sun was an hour high, black
dots appeared at the far edge of the
plain. Presently they became horsemen
hundreds of horsemen with a sprin-
kling of buggies, buckboards, and even
an automobile or so, strung about a
wagon from which came, now and then,
a beseeching whine.

This whine was the voice of Champion
Windem Bang, who gazed out through
the slats that penned him in and longed
to be away.

His small rival was quieter. The
white ghost knew what all these horse-
men meant: he knew what was expected
116

Dumb -Bell's Check

of him that day; but he knew that his
body ached, that his throat was dry, and
that the rolling stubble called but faintly
to him. The day before he had eaten a
piece of tainted meat no bigger than a
lump of sugar, and now it was better
to lie quietly in the soft straw than to
pit one's speed and nose against another
over those long, long miles.

So the gulf which never can be crossed,
between the human animal and his most
passionately devoted friend, was between
the little setter and fair play. One word
would have told these humans, one word
and yet it was denied him. He would
be judged by what he did that day,
without it. ... And so he lay in the
wagon and grinned a hopeless grin when
the big pointer yelped reproaches at
those about him, or scratched and bit
at the slats.

117

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

An iron-gray man on a big roan horse
drew rein at last,

"I think we might put them down
here, Frank," he said. "What time is
it?"

A man riding beside him nodded and
took out his watch.

"All right, Mr. Fry! All right, Mr.
Ramsey!" he called. " We'll let them go
at eight sharp that gives you five min-
utes."

It was only after a struggle that his
handler snapped the leash on Windem
Bang. When this was done, the pointer
soared out of the wagon with a yelp, and
bounded like a rubber ball to the end of
his tether. Emmett Fry threw his weight
against the leash and smiled.

Chuck Sellers saw the smile, and
leaned down confidentially from the sad-
dle.

118

Dumb -Bell's Check

"Better save some of that, Emmett!"
he advised. "You'll need it."

The handler looked up with a sneer.

"A hundred even on him!" he said.

"Got you!" said Chuck cheerfully.
"Come again!"

"Make it two!" said Fry.

"Got you!" Chuck repeated. "Are
you through?" But the pointer had
dragged his handler out of earshot, and
Chuck turned to Ramsey. "You heard
that, BiD?" he asked.

Ramsey nodded as he snapped the
leash on the white ghost.

"Well give you a run for your
money," he promised, and led his dog to
the starting point.

With the feel of the stubble under-
foot, with the big pointer straining at
his leash beside him, Dumb-Bell's spirits
revived a little. He was better; there
119

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

was no doubt of that. The water that
Ramsey had given him a moment before
had cooled his throat. His legs felt
stronger, too. He even wanted to run.
He would run, that was sure! Fast
enough, perhaps, to beat an ordinary
dog. But Windem Bang, big, splendid
Wlndem Bang, was not an ordinary
dog. And in addition to the running the
white ghost must read the crisp wind
that sang across a thousand miles of
prairie, and miss no word of its mes-
sage.

The little setter lifted his head. His
nostrils quivered as they explored the
wind. Then he knew that his nose would
betray him. It was no longer the nose
of a champion, but a dull, uncertain
thing the kind with which ordinary
shooting dogs go slowly and make mis-
takes. As he heard the "Get away!" of
120

Dumb -Bell's Check

his handler, which is the field trial call
to battle^ he grinned his hopeless grin.

When his leash is slipped, a field trial
dog races straight away. He is driven to
this first exultant rush by an overwhelm-
ing energy. A pair of high-class dogs
make this preliminary flight a trial of
pure speed. It was the custom of the
white ghost to give his rival fifty feet or
so and then sweep by him.

That Windem Bang could go like a
comet made no difference to him. Had
Dumb-Bell been himself, he would have
matched the pointer stride for stride,
with joy in his heart. But now his heels
had failed him and he called on the big
brain of Roderigo that was in his little
head. He let Windem Bang go on alone
into the far distance, while he shot away
to the left.

He saw a patch of green alfalfa as
121

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

he ran, and he headed for it. It was a
likely place for chickens; there was a good
half mile of it and he went down the
lower edge, his head well up, as fast as
he could go.

But Windem Bang did not run blindly
long. He, too, had brains; a champion
always has. When he found himself
alone, he looked about him. Then he
caught the green of the alfalfa, and he
swung in a magnificent curve to strike
the lower edge, down wind. He was
moving like a race horse, directly behind
the ghost. At each terrific bound he
made he cut down the distance between
them.

Dumb-Bell heard him coming. He
must get wind of the covey somewhere
in the green alfalfa before the pointer
passed him! He put every ounce of
strength he had into his running. He
122

Dumb -Bell's Check

no longer heard the pointer. Good!
He could still run, it seemed. Then he
heard, far away, another sound. It was
the spectators shouting. He turned his
head, and there was Windem Bang, on
the very spot where he himself had
passed ten seconds before, tense as steel,
as moveless as a stone.

There could be no mistaking what that
panther crouch of the big pointer meant.
From his eager lifted muzzle, to his stiff
and lancelike tail, every line of him said:
"Birds!"

Dumb-Bell's heart was bitter within
him as he whirled and acknowledged his
rival's find with an honor point.

"Missed 'em!" burst out a pointer man.
"Missed 'em clean! There's your setter
champion for you! Oh, mammal Did
you see that Bang dog nail 'em?"

"He he didn't d-do very well that
123

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

he ran, and he headed for it. It was a
likely place for chickens ; there was a good
half mile of it and he went down the
lower edge, his head well up, as fast as
he could go,

But Windem Bang did not run blindly
long. He, too, had hrains; a champion
always has. When he found himself
alone, he looked about him. Then he
caught the green of the alfalfa, and he
swung in a magnificent curve to strike
the lower edge, down wind. He was
moving like a race horse, directly behind
the ghost. At each terrific bound he
made he cut down the distance between
them.

Dumb-Bell heard him coming. He
must get wind of the covey somewhere
in the green alfalfa before the pointer
passed him! He put every ounce of
strength he had into his running. He
122

Dumb -Bell's Check

no longer heard the pointer. Good!
He could still run, it seemed. Then he
heard, far away, another sound. It was
the spectators shouting. He turned his
head, and there was Windem Bang, on
the very spot where he himself had
passed ten seconds before, tense as steel,
as moveless as a stone.

There could be no mistaking what that
panther crouch of the big pointer meant.
From his eager lifted muzzle, to his stiff
and lancelike tail, every line of him said:
"Birds!"

Dumb-Bell's heart was bitter within
him as he whirled and acknowledged his
rival's find with an honor point.

"Missed 'em!" burst out a pointer man.
"Missed 'em clean! There's your setter
champion for you! Oh, mamma! Did
you see that Bang dog nail 'em?"

"He he didn't d-do very weU that
123

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

time, did he, Jim?" said the mistress of
Brookfield, as their blackboard swayed
and bounded toward the pointing dogs.

"No," said Gregory. "I don't under-
stand it. It may be a false point."

But it wasn't a false point. Emmett
Fry flushed a mighty bevy of prairie
chickens thirty feet ahead of Windem
Bang. They rose like one bird, and
sailed off in stately flight to scatter in
the stubble nearly a mile away.

The man on the roan horse kept his
eyes on the two champions. Neither
moved.

"Send them on, gentlemen!" he called
to the handlers. "We'll follow this covey
up. We'll let them work on singles for
a while."

Then followed a terrible half -hour for
Dumb-Bell* In the race to the scattered
covey he was beaten, and he saw the
124

Dumb -Bell's Check

pointer make a smashing find two hun-
dred feet ahead of him. Once more he
came to an honor point. Once more a
yell of delight went up from those who
favored Windem Bang. Once more the
setter men looked at each other and were
silent.

And now it was a race among a scat-
tered covey at top speed, for champions
must catch the faint scent of a lone bird
while going like a rocket; and this takes
nose, and nose, and nose, fine as a hair
and certain as a compass - * * Dumb-
Bell's was hot with fever.

So he drove his aching body along,
while Emmett Fry called, "Point,
Judge!" again and again, as his dog
cut down the singles with swift preci-
sion.

For Dumb-Bell the wind was a blank.
Had he slowed down he might have read
125

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

it, but he was a champion, and he must
make his points high-headed and like a
flash of lighting, or not at all. He
worked in a frenzy, his sides heaving,
his eyes shot with blood, only to honor
Windem Bang, who was going faster
than he, and with a razor nose.

"Why, Pete!" said Chuck Sellers at
last in wide amazement. "They're goin*
to beat us!"

Peter turned to him with a set and
stony face.

"Beat us!" he said. "An' why
wouldn't they beat us ? 'E 'asn't no more
nose than I 'ave! I knowed it last night,
an' I let Bill talk me out of it! 'E's a
sick dog! An' we're tryin' to beat the
best pointer that ever lived, with 'im. I
ain't a trainer, I'm a bum! An' Bill!
. . . They'd ought to shoot J iml 'E's
sick, I tell you . . . Vs sick this min-
126

Dumb -Bell's Check

ite!" He turned his horse and galloped
back to the master of Brookfield.

" *Ave him took up, sir!" he said.
" 'E's off away off 'e ain't got nothin'.
'Ave him took up!"

The master of Brookfield hesitated.

"It won't do, Peter," he said finally.
"We should have known that before they
started."

"I knowed it!" said Peter. "I knowed
it last night! I'm a big slob beggin'
your pardon I ain't fit to 'andle 'untin*
dogs, let alone J im! You can fire me to-
morrow, sir; but take the little dog up!
'E's sick we may be 'armin' of 'im!"

They had come to a halt while a
chicken was flushed to the credit of Win-
dem Bang. Peter's voice had risen to
a wail, and many heard what he had
said.

"That's right, Gregory!" caUed a
127

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

pointer man. "Take him up! He's got
no business with that kind of a dog.
He's sick, all right, and gettin' sicker!
. . , Take him up!"

The master of Brookfield felt a slen-
der hand creep into his own. He
squeezed it slightly, and smiled a grim
smile.

"He'll have to take a beating, Peter/'
he said quietly. "Go on, driver!"

So Dumb-Bell took his beating for
half of the three hours that he must
run, and a fearful beating it was. For
an hour and thirty minutes he ran, gasp^
ing for air, slobbering at the mouth*
while his nose told him nothing.

Then as he passed a patch of ragweed
he caught a faint trace on the wind. He
turned like a flash and froze into a
statue. He had taken a desperate
chance of making a false point. He had
128

Dumb -Bell's Check

acted with the certainty of a good nose
when he was far from certain. He
grinned with anxiety as he waited for his
handler, while faint, very faint, came
that trace on the wind.

"Steady, boy!" said Ramsey. An in-
stant later twenty feathered bombs shot
up from the stubble and sailed away.

"Some find!" said Chuck Sellers,
brightening. "How does that suit you,
Pete?"

But Peter did not reply. He was
watching a white streak flash along the
stubble, neck and neck with Windem
Bang.

This was the turning of the tide. The
violent effort he had made on courage
alone was the little setter's salvation.
His pounding heart had at last cleared
(his blood of the ptomaine that had
drugged him.

129

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

As he raced for the scattered covey
he felt a new vitality surge within him.
. . . Ten minutes more and Dumb-Bell
was himself again a white ghost with a
magic nose.

But Windem Bang was a great dog,
backed by a tremendous lead. Only a
miracle could save the day for Brook-
field. The white ghost knew this as well
as those who watched, and from that
moment he became a miracle in nose and
range and speed. Windem Bang was
still going like the wind few dogs could
have held him even. But now ahead of
him, always ahead of him, was a white
and fleeting thing that skimmed the stub-
ble with no apparent effort, and found
birds in all directions.

The big pointer was puzzled. For the
first time in his life he was being out-
paced, and he couldn't understand it.
130

Dumb -Bell's Check

He had run rings around this little setter
until now! He would do it again, he
told himself then every sinew in his
body drank deep of his vitality while he
ran as he had never run before*

An hour went by, and Windem Bang
began to wonder. A shadow came and
dimmed the eager light in his eyes. The
shadow was fatigue, and it frightened
him.

He fled from it in a tremendous
burst of speed, found a bevy, and went
on. But the shadow grew deeper. It
was blotting out all the fire, all the bril-
liancy of his efforts. In nose and heels
and heart he felt it now, and he looked
anxiously ahead. Despair seized him as
he looked; for Brookfield Dumb-Bell
was going like a driven spirit, immune
from the weakness of flesh.

"Call in your dogs, gentlemen!" said
131

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

the man on the roan house. "They have
been down three hours."

In another moment he was the center
of a crowding mass of horsemen that
grew larger every instant.

"Who wins?" they howled. "Who
wins?" And many answered the ques-
tion themselves.

The man on the roan horse held up
his hand for silence, and obtained it.

"Gentlemen/' he began, "the judges
have decided that this match, so far, is a
draw. We " He got no further.

"Draw! Hell! The setter couldn't
smell nothin' for two hours!" . . . "Two
hours! Forget it! Look what he done
all the last end! The setter wins!" , . .
"You're a liar!" . . . "Get down off
that horse an' say it again!"
At last quiet was restored.

"As I said before, gentlemen, this
132

Dumb -Bell's Check

match, as it now stands, is a draw. It
becomes a matter of stamina. The
judges ask that the dogs go on until we
can render a decision!"

"Why, certainly," said the master of
Brookfield when Peter brought him the
word.

But Emmett Fry faced the judges
with the panting Windem Bang on leash
beside him.

"Do you think these are huntin' dogs?'*
he inquired. "Do you want 'em to go
all day? This was a three-hour match.
I've run it and won it, and I want a
decision now! I won't turn this dog
loose again for nobody!"

The man on the roan horse looked at
Emmett coldly.

"Very well, Mr. Fry," he said. "If
you refuse to go on, we shall decide now
in favor of the setter*"
133

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

The handler's face became gray with
rage. He took a step forward, opened
his lips, closed them again, and turned
abruptly to Bill Ramsey.

"I'm ready whenever you are," he said
hoarsely.

Ramsey stooped and cast off his dog*

"Get away!" he said, with a wave of
his hand and the white ghost was gone.

An instant later Windem Bang flung
himself across the stubble at the top of
his clip, and the battle was on again.

The short rest had helped the big
pointer. He went away with a rush.
For twenty minutes more he went, a
splendid thing to see. Then suddenly a
red darkness fell about him. It was hot
and suffocating; it filled his nostrils so
that his breath came in struggling gasps.

It was hard to go on in this darkness.
But champions must go on and on until
134

Dumb -Bell *s Check

they hear a whistle. He went on until
a weight, an immense weight, seemed to
fall across his loins. It was not fair to
make him carry such a weight, he
thought, and faltered in his stride. . . .
The voice of his handler came like the
lash of a whip:

"You Bang! Go on!" it said.

Yes, he must go on. He had forgot-
ten for a moment. He saw a swale ahead
and to the right. Its edge was dark with
ragweed, and he plunged toward it. The
swale was half a mile away, and he called
on the last of his strength to reach it.
He was nearly there when a white flash
shot from the left, cut in ahead of him,
and stiffened into marble. Windem
Bang lurched to a point in acknowledg-
ment, swaying where he stood.

This was the end. As the birds were
flushed, the pointer staggered on he
135

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

didn't know where. The voice of his
handler had lost its meaning. He must
go on, he knew that. So he went in an
aimless circle.

The man on the roan horse rode for-
ward to the pointer's handler. His eyes
were full of pity.

"You have a great dog, Mr. Fry," he
said, "but call him in, please."

"Damn his heart . . . damn his yel-
low heart!" said Emmett Fry, and blew
his whistle.

Windem Bang swung toward the
sound of it, and came in. He was too
far gone to dodge the loaded butt of the
heavy dog whip, and he went down with-
out a sound when it descended across
his back. Nor did he make much of an
outcry as it descended again and again.
Only a moan came from him. He was
too exhausted to do more. . . .
136

Dumb -Bell's Check

The mistress of Brookfield gave a
choking cry, flung herself from the
buckboard, and rushed forward like a
fury. Emmett Fry heard her coming,
and looked up blindly.

"The dirty hound quit!" he said. "He
had it won . . . the dirty hound . , .
but he quit!"

"You vile beast!" flamed the mistress
of Brookfield. "Don't you dare touch
him again!" She dropped in the stub-
ble beside Windem Bang, throwing her
coat over him as she did so.

The master of Brookfield lifted her
up.

"This won't do, Chief," he said, and
all but carried her to the buckboard.

"Oh, Jim!" she pleaded. "He tried so
Hard!"

Then a thumping sound, followed by a
moaning whimper, canie to her. She
137

Dumb -Bell of Brook field

covered her ears and sank in a heap to
the floor of the buckboard.

"If Dumb-Bell had only lost!" she
sobbed. "If Dumb-Bell had only
lost. . ."

"Never mind, little Chief!" said the
master of Brookfield. "f ZZ take care of
that."

He strode back until he faced the
owner of Windem Bang.

"I have taken a fancy to your dog
..." he managed to say, but could
get no further. Suddenly he tore a
checkbook from his pocket and wrote
with a shaking hand. He held out a
signed check for the other to see. "Fill
it in quick for God's sake!" he said.

No one will ever know what Cham-
pion Windem Bang cost the master of
Brookfield. He said no word to any
138

Dumb -Bell y s Check

man as he led the first pointer he had
ever owned to the buckboard. But as
he drove away a pair of dog eyes, trust-
ing, faithful, looked up into his face, and
a slim arm went about his neck So,
perhaps, everything considered, he did
not pay too much.

A few days later the secretary of a
certain benevolent society received the
following letter:

Being heartily in sympathy with the work
you do, it gives me great pleasure to inclose
my check for one thousand dollars.

Faithfully yours,
Champion BROOKFIELD

A PERMANENT INTRUDER

IV

A PERMANENT INTRUDER

THE last thirty miles had been slid
over somehow, and the car,
sheathed in the mud of five counties,
shot between brick gateposts to decent
footing at last. I went into high gear
for the first time in hours, it seemed to
me with a sigh of relief. The mile spin
up the graveled drive was a humming
flash, and soon I was getting out of my
coat in the dusky paneled hall which
bisects the house, clean as a knife cut,
from front to back.

The man disappeared with my bags
after telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Greg-
ory were out on the place somewhere
"huntin' mushrooms." I went to the
143

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

dining-room, poured myself a drink of
raw Scotch, and then drifted, as one
does at Brookfield, to the living-room
with its big open fire. I was halfway
across the room when there came a
hoarse rumble from the fireplace that
nailed my feet to the floor.

"That-a-boy?" I said cheerfully, and
took a step toward the fireplace.

There was another cavernous rumble,
"Now see here/' I said with authority.
"You stop this nonsense."

A gargoyle head was lifted from the
bricks before the fireplace, a pair of
bloodshot eyes were rolled in my direc-
tion and the rumble ceased. The eyes
inspected me lazily and I was glad to
note this without malice. Presently
thump, thump went a clublike tail on
the bricks. At the invitation I ad-
vanced.

144

A Permanent Intruder

He was an astonishing thing to find
in his present surroundings. He was
huge, he was a tawny yellow, he had
lost an ear. He had been arrived at
through the haphazard matings of bull
terriers, English bulls, mastiffs, and
heaven knows what else. Yet here he
was, stretched comfortably before the
living-room fire at Brookfield, where
chickens, pigeons, cats, cattle, horses,
and, above all, dogs, show an impeccable
line of ancestors who made no steps
aside.

He was a mystery, a friendly mystery,
after that first deep-throated challenge,
and my curiosity grew as I examined
the unlovely bulk of him. I wondered
in what disreputable proceedings he had
lost his ear. I wondered why four of
his lower front teeth were gone. Most
of all I wondered at his serene content-
145

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

ment; at his air of being perfectly at
home.

At last I pushed his bullet head aside,
pulled his one good ear, gave him a solid
thump on the ribs, and took my way to
the kennels, and Peter, for an explana-
tion.

"Peter," I said, while shaking hands,
"why is that" I hesitated "bulldog al-
lowed in the living-room?"

Peter took his stumpy fingers from
mine and grinned.

"You 'ad 'ard work gettin' it out,
didn't you?" he said. "Oh, 'e belongs
'ere all right. 'Aven't you seen the
people?"

"No," I replied. "They don't know
IVe come. He looks like bad medicine*
I should think you'd be afraid he'd take
hold of one of the setters."

"I was," said Peter thoughtfully "at
146

A Permanent Intrude*

first. I put up a 'ell of a row about 'im.
'E come 'ere all along of horchids."

"Orchids!" I repeated. "What have
orchids got to do with it?"

Peter indicated a sawhorse.

" 'Ave a seat," he invited, and wadded
a startling handful of fine cut into hia
mouth.

"You know," he began, after a neces-
sary pause, "the missus was all for raisin'
these 'ere horchids awhile back?"

I nodded.

"Well," said Peter, "we 'ad our trou-
bles till it was over. Whilst we was
goin' through this horchid business every-
thing else was forgot. Why, she
wouldn't come 'ere once a month, an'
my best litters by Dumb-Bell bein'
whelped at the time. I'd go up to the
'ouse after breakfast and I'd say: *Beg-
gin' your pardon, mem, but Sue Whit-
147

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

stone 'as nine grand ones by the little
dog."

" 'Yes,' she'd say; 'that's fine, Peter.
I'll come down in a little while just
as soon as I see Jerry.'

"Then she'd start for the green' ouses,
an' 'er an' ole Jerry 7 ud ? ave their 'eads
together the rest of the day.

"For all Jerry's sweatin' an 5 stewin*,
though, an' 'er an' 'im readin' books an'
such, it seemed like the horchids was too
shifty for 'em. Jerry 'as been a good
gardener in 'is time, but 'e 'adn't never
messed with horchids an' 'e couldn't seem
to get the 'ang of 'em somehow.

"Right in the midst of it comes wood-
cock season, an' I got the missus' Lamp-
ton 20 oiled up nice for 'er. The day
before the season opened the mister tells
me we'll go over to the big 'ollow after
cock next mornin'.

148

A Permanent Intruder

" 'We'll take Bang and Beau, 5 'e says
'We'll start at five o'clock/

" "I've been workin' a pair of youn^
Dumb-Bells on cock/ I says; 'an' whil
they're not finished yet they 'ave swee
noses on 'em that Bang sets a 'ot pad
for the missus/

" 'She's not going/ ? e says. 'She's to<
busy to get away/

" 'Well, I 'ardly expected it/ I says
'She 'asn't looked in this direction for t
month/

" 'Try flowers, Peter/ y e says, grinnin
at me. 'Why don't you plant some nic<
geraniums along the runways V

"Me an 5 the mister 'unted cock alon<
all that week an' the next. One noor
we're 'aving a bite at the 'ickory grove
spring.

" ' 'Ow long now/ I says, 'do you thint
it'll last?'

149

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

stone 'as nine grand ones by the little
dog."

" 'Yes,' she'd say; 'that's fine, Peter.
I'll come down in a little while just
as soon as I see Jerry.'

"Then she'd start for the green'ouses,
an' 'er an 5 ole Jerry 'ud 'ave their 'eads
together the rest of the day.

"For all Jerry's sweatin' an* stewing
though, an' 'er an' 'im readin' books an'
such, it seemed like the horchids was too
shifty for 'em. Jerry 'as been a good
gardener in 'is time, but 'e 'adn't never
messed with horchids an' 'e couldn't seem
to get the 'ang of 'em somehow.

"Right in the midst of it comes wood-
cock season, an' I got the missus' Lamp-
ton 20 oiled up nice for ? er. The day
before the season opened the mister tells
me well go over to the big 'ollow after
cock next mornin'.

148

A Permanent Intruder

" 'Well take Bang and Beau/ 'e says.
'We'll start at five o'clock/

" 'I've been workin' a pair of young
Dumb-Bells on cock/ I says; 'an' while
they're not finished yet they 'ave sweet
noses on 'em that Bang sets a 'ot pace
for the missus/

" 'She's not going/ 'e says. 'She's too
busy to get away/

" 'Well, I 'ardly expected it/ I says.
'She 'asn't looked in this direction for a
month/

" 'Try flowers, Peter/ 'e says, grinnin'
at me. 'Why don't you plant some nice
geraniums along the runways ?'

"Me an' the mister 'unted cock alone
all that week an' the next. One noon
we're 'aving a bite at the 'ickory grove
spring.

" ' 'Ow long now/ I says, 'do you think
it'll last?'

149

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"'Last?' 'e says. "Why, ten days
more, of course/

" *I don't mean the season/ I says. C I
mean horchids.'

" 'E was just reachin' for a sandwich,
but 'e didn't take it. Instead 'e rolls
in the leaves.

" 'Don't ask me/ 'e says, settin' up
with dead leaves in 'is ? air. 'She's sent
to Scotland for an expert. 'E'll be 'ere
soon, I fancy. Then we'll see some
regular horchids. Cheer up, Peter; per-
haps she'll let us wear one now and
then/

"Well, it was so. One day 'ere comes
a specimin up the drive it's a long-
necked Scotchman with reddish 'air like.
5 E 'as a shiny black 'amper in one 'and
an' a bundle tied with rope in the other.
At 'is 'eels was a yellow-'ided butcher's
bull as big as 'e was ugly.
150

A Permanent Intruder

" 'Where/ I says to 'im, 'did you find
little Buttercup?'

" 'Mon/ 'e says, 'will ye tell Missus
MacGregor I'm koom?"

"'I will that/ I says. 'I'll mention
both of you to 5 er. Stay 'ere till I'm
back. 5

"I found the missus in a green'ouse.
'Er sleeves was rolled up an' she 'ad
loam on 'er 'ands an' face.

" 'Mem/ I says, 'your horchid man 'as
come with something that'll 'ave to be
got off the place in a 'urry.'

" 'Bring him 'ere to me, Peter/ she
says; an' I done so. But first I 'ad 'im
shut 'is dog in a runway.

"When we got to the green'ouse I
points inside, an' Scotty an' 'is 'amper
an' 'is bundle all goes in. 'E took a
look at the missus.

" 'Lassie/ 'e says, 'whur's your lady?'
151

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"The missus gave me a look out of the
corner of her eye.

" * Won't I do?' she says.

"I must say this Scotty, for all 'is
long neck, surprised me. But then 'e
'ad red 'air. 'E put down 'is 'amper
an' 'is bundle.

" c Aye, lass/ 'e says, c y e 'U do, though
soap an' watter would na harm ye/
With that 'e steps to the missus an'
takes a kiss at 'er. An' as I'm a livin'
man she never moved an inch.

" 'Thank you/ she says. 'Now what
else can I do for you? I'm Mrs. Greg-
ory/

"Scotty looked at 'er close. 'Er rings
was layin' on the window edge where
she'd heen diggin', an' the flash of 'em
in the sunlight caught 'is eye. It 'it
'im all at once. Man, I'm tellin' you it
was 5 ard to tell where 'is face stopped 1
152

A Permanent Intruder

and 'is 'air begun. Next 'e grabbed up
'is 'amper an' 'is bundle an' out an' away
'e went.

" 'E climbed the stone wall at the
edge of the south lawn an' 'is coat tails
goin' over it was the last we ever saw
of 'im. The missus come to the green-
'ouse door an' watched 'im streak it across
the lawn.

" c 'E seems to be going, Peter,' she
says, an' 'er eyes was dancin' in 'er
'ead.

" * 'E 'as that appearance, mem,* I
says.

"She looked anxious all of a sudden.

" ' 'E'll surely come back, won't 'e?'
she says. *I paid his passage from Aber-
deen.'

" 'Beggin' your pardon, mem/ I says*
'but just at the wall there 'e didn't strike
me, take it all in all, like a person who
153

Dumb -Bell of JBrookfteld

'ad 'opes of returning.' Then I remem-
bered something.

" 'Oh, Lord!' I says. ' 'E's went an'
left Buttercup.'

" 'Buttercup?' says the missus. 'What's
Buttercup?'

" 'If the horchids,' I says, 'could get
on by themselves, mem, whilst you're
walkin' down to the kennels,' I says, 'you
can see for yourself.'

"She 'adn't nothing to say to that an'
we started for the kennels.

" 'Peter,' she says all of a sudden, 'I
'aven't treated you very well lately. I'm
sorry/

" 'Who am I to complain, mem?' I
says.

" 'I'm going for woodcock tomorrow,'
she says. 'But, Peter,' she says, 'this
mustn't get out, you know I'd never
'ear the last of it.'

154

A Permanent Intrude?

"We'd got to the runways by now.
Buttercup was in No. 4 an' I 'eaded
for it.

" * 'Ave no fear of me, mem,' I says.
'But/ I says, stoppin' at the runway
gate, 'what's to be done with 'im? 'E'll
need a lot of explaininY

"Buttercup was settin 5 on 'is 'unkers,
lookin' mournful an' lettin' a kind of
low thunder come off 'is chest.

" * 'Eavens, what a brute!' says the
missus. 'Where did 'e come from? 5

" ' 'E belonged/ I says, 'to our late
friend from Scotland. 'E don't seem to
like the climate 'ere, does 'e?'

" 'This is dreadful, Peter/ she says.
'What'll we do with 'im?'

" 'Give him away to somebody/ I says,
'for a pet/

"'Peter!' she says. 'Open that gate!'

" 'Yes, mem/ I says, an' put my 'and
155

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

to the gate latch. With that Buttercup
goes plumb crazy. 'E let out a roar
'an 'it the gate like a tornado.

" 'Oh, that's the way you feel about
it, is it?' I says. Then I went to the
carpenter shop and got me a piece of
lead pipe about two foot long.

" What are you goin' to do, Peter? 5
says the missus when I'm back.

" Tm goin' in,' I says, 'an' explain
about 'is disposition to > im.'

" 'No, no/ she says. 'Just let 'im
alone for a while. Get water to ? im
somehow, then drive to town as fast as
you can and find 'is master. If you
find him, telephone me.'

"I done what she said, but I couldn't
find 'ide nor 'air of Scotty until I
thought of the junction a mile this side
of town. I drove out there, an' the man
at the tower told me Scotty 'ad climbed 1
156

A Permanent Intruder

the noon train goin' east when she
stopped for water.

"Well, that left Buttercup on our
'ands. I was for puttin' a charge of
shot in 'is ugly 'ead, but the missus
wouldn't 'ear of it. She says that Scotty
may send for 'im.

" 'An' suppose he does/ I says.
'Who'll get 'im out of there an' ship

" 'I thought you were a dog trainer/
says the missus.

" 'I am/ I says; 'I'm just that. But
I'm no lion tamer. An' then suppose
'e don't send for 'im will 'e live an' die
in a runway?'

" 'No/ she says ; 'I'm going to 'andle
5 im myself. 'E'U be fond of me in a
month, Peter.'

"I done all I could to change 'er mind,
but she wouldn't listen, an' she tells me

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

not to feed Buttercup nothin' that day.

"The next morning she's 'ere bright
an' early with a package of meat. The
dog is back in 'is kennel an' all you can
see of 'im is 'is green eyes shinin', but you
can 'ear 'im easy enough, if you go up
to the gate.

"The missus stands by the runway an'
begins a conversation with 'im.

'" What's the matter?' says the
missus. 'Lonesome ?'

" 'Gr-r-r-r-rh!" says Buttercup.

" "Come out an' -get acquainted/ says
the missus.

" 'Gr-r-r-rh!' says Buttercup;, an'
that's the way it goes.

" 'You want 'im out of there, mem?'
I says after a while.

" 'Yes/ she says. 'I'd like to have 'im
come 'ere to the fence/

" 'That can be arranged/ I says. I
158

A Permanent Intruder

stepped up to the gate an' rattled the
catch, an 5 'e come out all right. 'E
kep' comin' too, till 'e 'it the gate, an' 'e
tried to tear it down when 'e got there.

"The missus flinched back a step or
two. I didn't blame 'er neither.

" 'Better let me put a charge of shot
in 'im an' get it over with, mem/ I
says.

"But she looks at me as pleased as
Punch.

" 'Why, Peter,' she says, 'I wouldn't
miss it for anything. Isn't he splendid!
It's just what you said it was lion tam-
ing/

"She throws the meat over the fence,
tells me not to feed the dog, an' goes up
to the 'ouse. Anybody could see she
was 'aving the time of 'er life.

"She comes every day for a week with
meat, or dog cakes, or something, ar f
159

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

puts in an hour with Buttercup; but it
never fazed ? im. 'E 'ad the worst dis-
position on 'im I ever saw. She'd set
by the gate an' call ? im a lamb an' such,
an' 'im ragin' inside with 'is back like a
'airbrush.

"Despite what she'd told me, she tells
the whole business to the mister, an'
never warned me neither. So when 'e
asks me about Buttercup I horiginates
'ow the horchid man, not likin 9 the place,
'ad left without 'is dog.

" 'Why didn't 'e like it 'ere?' 'e says
when I'm. done.

""E didn't say,' I says. * ? E just
left 'urriedly.'

" 'Is eyes crinkled up the way they
do when 'e's tickled.

""Urriedly, eh?' 'e says. 'I think
that describes it. Talk some more,
Peter; I like to 'ear you/
160

A Permanent Intruder

" 'She's told you/ I says. 'An 5 never
let me know/

" 'Well, anyway/ 'e says, C I think
we're through with horchids. But be
careful,, Peter; lion taming is all right
if it isn't overdone, you understand?'

"I shows 'im the hutt of a thirty-eight
stickin' out of my 'ip pocket.

" 'If the fence should 'appen to hust/
I says, 'we'll lose a lion round 'ere sud-
den/

" 'Exactly/ 'e says, an* goes over to
the cattle barns.

"Well, the lion tamin* goes on as usual
for a week or so more, an' then 'er work
begun to tell. Buttercup got so' ? e be-
gun to look for 'er when ten o'clock
came, which was the time she always
showed up.

" 'E'd give ? er a growl or two just to
show ? e 'adn't lost 'is voice, but 'e left
161

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

the gate alone an' 'e begun to listen to
what she 'ad to say.

"One day she 'olds a piece of meat in
'er 'and an' pokes it through the fence.
9 E looks at it an' then looks away like
5 e 'asn't no interest in meat.

" 'Come on!' she says. "You know you
want it.'

"'Gr-r-r-rh!' 'e says, an' took another
look at the meat.

"They argued about it for a while, but
'e wouldn't touch it. Next day she done
the same thing, an' at last 'e come up
careful, grabbed the meat, takes it back
in the runway an' drops it.

"'Very good!' she says. 'But never
snatch; it's not polite. Aren't you going
to eat it?'

" 'E smelled it an* then ate it an' come
back for more. I don't think ? e ever
growled at 'er after that.
162

A Permanent Intrude**

" 'When 'e wags 'is tail, Peter, I'm
going in/ she says, an' that's what she
done. She 'ad fed 5 im by 'and for quite
a while. Then one morning she was
late an' 'e stood at the fence lookin' up
the drive toward the 'ouse. After a
while 'e give a whine or two, an' all of
a sudden 'is tail begun to go. I looked
up the drive an' 'ere she come.

" 'E stood up on 'is 'ind legs pawin'
at the gate when she got there, 'is tail
as busy as a bee.

"'Good morning, Big Boy!' she says.
An' before ever I knowed what she was
at she opened the gate an' stepped in,
I 'ollered an' run for it, but she shut
it in my face.

" 'You stay outside with your fine
large revolver/ she says. I didn't know
she 7 ad noticed the gun till then.

"She goes to feedin' 'im by 'and, a
163

Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

piece at a time. 'E grabbed at the first
one, an' I'm tellin' you now she give
'im a slap on the nose.

" 'Table manners !' she says, an' 9 e took
the rest more careful. When 'e'd ate it
all she 'ad me get 'er a chair. Then
she sets an' talks to 'im, an' after a while
'e puts 'is ugly mug in 'er lap.

"Well, that ended the lion tamin'.
But 'e 'ad to be shut up for fear 'e'd
kill a real dog for us, an' the missus
took 'im out on leash every day. She'd
go way over in the fields with 'im an"
let 'im run there, an' I will say 'e minded
'er good.

"I 'ated the sight of 'im at the ken-
nels, more especial when dog men came
to see my stuff . Chuck Sellers, 'e visited
me once, an' I was goin' down the run-
ways with 'im.

" 'This/ I says, pointin 5 to a dog *ve ? d
164

A Permanent Intruder

just brought over, c is the Duke of Kent,
We himported 'im for an outcross on
the Roderigo blood. 'Andsome, ain't
'e?'

" 'Yes/ says Chuck, an' looks over in
the next runway where the big mongrel
was kep.' 'What you goin' to do with
Count Cesspool?' 'e says. 'Raise little
'ippopotamuses V

"I got so I 'ated the big slob like a
skunk, but the missus wouldn't get rid
of 'im. She says that Scotty may send
for ? im; but that wasn't it. You see 'e
would 'ave bit a leg off any but 'er
that monkeyed with 'im, an' she knowed
it an' it tickled 'er.

" 'E 'ad been on the place three
months or so when one day 'ere comes a
man from the cattle barns on the run.

" 'Get a gun quick an' come on!' he
'oilers. 'The Regent is loose/
165

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

" 'E meant Cordova Regent. YouVe
'eard of 'im, I expect the worst Jer-
sey bull that ever stood on four
feet.

" 'That's a fine business/ I says. 'Who
let 'im loose?'

" "We tried to put another ring in 'is
nose an' 'e broke the ropes/ 'e says.
"Urry up!'

"I grabbed an automatic from the ken-
nel gun rack with a 'andful of shells, an'
started for the barns. As I went down
the runways I banged into an open gate,
It was Buttercup's runway, so 'e was
out with the missus somewhere, an' I
cussed 'im an' run on.

"I run through the dairy 'ouse,
thinkin' to go out the back way an' save
time. Well, the back door was locked,
'eaven knows why, so I come out again
an' went round.

166

A Permanent Intruder

"At the barnyard was the men, some
up on sheds, some on the straw stack,
an' one or two on the barn. They 'ad
clubs an 5 pitchforks an' such, but I didn't
see nobody on the ground.

"There was a panel of the barnyard
fence tore down, an' the Regent was
trottin' across the fields toward a bunch
of cows, shakiii' 'is big black 'ead an*
bellerin'.

"Then something came up out of the
'ollow just ahead of the Regent. It was
the missus an' she 'ad her back to 'im, an*
then I lost my mind.

"'Run, mem!' I says. Tor God's
sake, run!' I whispered it, that's what I
done, an' 'er a *alf mile away.

"The Regent put down 'is 'ead when

'e saw 'er, gave a roar, an' started. She

'ad stooped down for something she told

afterward she 'ad seen a four-leaf clover

167

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

but she 'eard 'im an' straightened up.
Then she tried to run.

"Do you 'appen to know 'ow fast a
bull can move? I didn't until then. She
might as well 'ave stood still in 'er tracks.

"Just about as the bull 'it 'er, Butter-
cup come up over the bank at the brook.
'E 'ad been diggin' at a ground 'og 'ole
or something, an 5 is 'head an' chest was
covered with mud.

"The Regent seemed to strike the
missus fair that's the way it looked,
any'ow. Man, it was 'orrible! The fact
is, 'is left 'orn went through 'er skirt,
whirled her in the air like, an' tore it
clean off of 'er. 'E never touched 'er
else.

"The Regent stopped an' turned to
come back, but 'e didn't get far. 'E
'ad no more than turned, I'll say to you,
when the dog *ad 'im by the nose.
168

A Permanent Intruder

"I don't know 'ow long it took for
me to get to where they were long
enough. The Regent would swing 'is
'ead in the air, then bring it down an'
batter Buttercup against the ground.
I was 'opin' the dog would 'ave enough
life left in 'im to 'old 'is grip until I
come, an' 'e done it, although the Regent
got 'im under 'is feet at the last.

"As I come up the missus got on 'er
knees she'd been lyin' still till then.

"'Shoot quick!' she says. ' 'E's
killin' 'im!' An' I done so.

"Well, sir, when the missus tells me
she ain't 'urt, I tried to make that dog
let go the dead bull's nose; but 'e
wouldn't think of it. 'E 'ad 'is jaws an'
eyes shut tight an' 'e didn't open neither
of 'em,

"At last the missus tries what she can
do* She puts 'er 'and on 'is 'ead.
169

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

go, Big Boy!' she says. 'It's
all over.' She keeps talkin' to 'im, an'
after a while 'e lets go an' rolls on 'is
side.

" 'E lay there very limp, one ear gone
an' bleedin' from the mouth. One of
the men gets 'is 'at full of water from
the brook an' the missus pours it over
Buttercup's 'ead, an' then bathes 'is
muzzle.

"I got 'er skirt where the Regent 'ad
tossed it an' brought it to 'er.

" 'Don't you want this, mem ?' I says.
'You can wrap it round you like.'

"'What difference does it make?' she
says. ' 'E's going to die, Peter.'

" ' 5 Ow do you know, mem V I says.
We'll carry 'im up to the kennels an*
*ave a vet take a look at 'im/

"'What a fool I am!' she says, 'Of
course. 'Ave Felix go for Doctor Slos-
17C

A Permanent Intruder

son as fast as 'e can. Tell 'im to take
the roadster.'

" 'Yes, mem/ I says, an' the men car-
ried the dog to the stables whilst I went
to 'ustle Felix off,

"By the time Felix drove in with the
vet Buttercup was settin' up an' takin'
notice.

"The vet went over 'im careful. 'Two
ribs/ 5 e says, 'one ear an' four front
teeth. Outside of that Vll do. 'E's not
worth much, is 'e?'

" 'Not much, Doc/ I says 'Just 'is
weight in gold, that's all/

"The missus looks at me quick an* I
see 'er eyes flood up.

" 'Thank you, Peter, dear old Peter/
she says. 'There's quite a lot of 'im, you
know/

"With that she drops 'er 'ead in J er
'ands an' cries like 'er 'eart would break*
171

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Ain't that funny, now she 'adn't shed a
tear till then.

"Well, that's about all, an' 'ere she
comes down the drive. She's after you,
I expect."

I got to my feet and waved to the
slender figure approaching.

"But, Peter," I said, "how can a dog
as cross as that be kept at the house?"

"Cross!" said Peter. "Huh! 'E's old
*ome folks now."

DUMB-BELL'S GUEST

V

DUMB-BELL'S GUEST

HOW long can you stay?" asked
Mrs. Gregory.

"Three days, three whole blissful
days/* I answered. I put my arm about
her and I led her to the north end of
the terrace, from which point Brook-
field rolls away in emerald or flame or
duns and browns, depending on the sea-
son.

The rose garden lapping the terrace
was bare. Stiff, thorny spikes were all
that November had left of a riot of
bending, lifting, swaying roses and
green-enamel leaves. The white marble
shaft of the sundial was bold against a
flat background of chocolate brown
175

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

earth. The garden wall was edged with
hydrangeas. Their creamy petals had
become ghosts in Japanese grays and
tans which the afterglow was changing
to heliotrope. Beyond the garden was
the north, some of the east, and nearly
all of the west lawn. These flowed away
to far vine-clad flint walls guessed at
in the half-light where they passed a vista
in the trees.

Drives, maple bordered, swept in
curves to stables, garage, greenhouses
and gates. Oaks, hickories, elms and the
dark mystery of scattered pines broke
the red of the western sky. Behind us
was the black pile of the house itself,
in which friendly lights were spring-
ing up. And behind that the meadows
of Brookfield ran and ran to distant
hills.

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Mrs, Greg-
176

Dumb -Bell's Guest

ory after a time. Her hand tightened
on my arm. "My dear, we nearly lost
it!"

I turned and met her eyes. "Lost
it!" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Money!" she explained.

"But that's impossible. Jim wrote me
the works were running night and day
on war orders."

"That was it war orders. Jim will
tell you. You'll find him changed, a
little. Things like that change people.
We go along for years never knowing.
Life seems so simple, so easy, then
something happens, some small thing, a
little human thing, and you're ground
to pieces, nearly. We were saved by
a miracle, I think."

I heard well-known footsteps on the
terrace behind us. They had the swing-
ing stride which comes from mile on
177

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

mile of stubble or briars, or crackling
leaves.

"Spooning, eh?" said the master of
Brookfield.

"Of course," said Mrs. Gregory,

"What's all this the Chief's been tell-
ing me?" I demanded.

"Spare me," said Gregory, releasing
my hand. "What does a lady tell a gen-
tleman when he stands with his arm
abdut her in the gloaming?" Then he
grew serious. "After dinner," he said.

"He's not changed much that I can
see," I told Mrs. Gregory.

But at dinner I did see a change. His
grin, his irrepressible boyish grin, had
become a smile. And in those comfort-
able silences which are the hallmark of
abiding friendship I had time to wonder.

So they had nearly lost it! I glanced
about the big shadow-filled room. It
178

Dumb -Bell's Guest

seemed incredible. It was all so secure,
so permanent. Why, the sideboard alone
was immovable! It stood there, pon-
derous, majestic, defying mortal hands
to budge it. And the serving tables
stolid, silent. I felt that they would
set their broad backs and massive legs
and remain stubbornly against those
walls while we who dined, and our chil-
dren's children, became dust.

And yet, what kept them there?
What made Brookfield, every stick and
stone of it, a thing of joy, a place
which filled all those who entered its
gates with indescribable contentment? I
knew, I had seen it. It was six miles
down the valley. It was referred to,
casually, as "the works." It was a place
of din and dirt and sweat. Tall stacks
belched sootily into the face of heaven
while white-hot mouths of hell opened
179

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

and closed below. In infancy it had
been a tiny forge at which a great-great-
grandfather had labored placidly. It
had grown into a huge black demon dis-
gorging thousands of tons of greasy
gray ingots in a manner which was be-
yond my understanding. Gregory, shout-
ing above the terrifying noise, had at-
tempted to explain; but my head was
aching and I very much desired to leave
that place to its own infernal devices.

I had never seen it since. Submerged
in the tranquillity of Brookfield, I had
forgotten it entirely. Even Gregory
gave it scant attention. He motored
down the valley once or twice a month,
was gone perhaps three hours, and re-
turned to his dogs and his guns.

But something had gone amiss, appar-
ently. Perhaps the trouble had been in
the demon's entrails. Perhaps it had re-
180

Dumb -Bell's Guest

fused to digest the ore and lime and
coke which pygmies poured down its
gullet.

A gray shadow padded through the
doorway. It stopped just at the en-
trance and surveyed us silently,

"Good evening/' said Gregory.
** Won't you join us? 55

The shadow waved a plumed taiL It
advanced unhurriedly until the candle
light showed a small white setter with a
lemon dumb-bell on his side.

He was quite small, as setters go, but
he had the dignity of kings. He was
the double champion Brookfield Dumb-
Bell who had won the National and All
America and twenty lesser stakes be-
sides. He outclassed the setters and
pointers of the world, and I think he
knew it.

With all this he was not above the
181

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

duties of hospitality. Straight to my
chair he came, sniffed once to assure
himself of my identity, then raised his
eyes to mine.

"How do you do?" I said and slid my
hand along his head until one of his ears
slipped through my fingers.

He waved his tail and stretched his
lips in the suggestion of a grin, an un-
canny habit he had and I remembered
how many birds I had missed the yeap
before after some of his matchless finds.

"It's not polite to laugh at a duffer/ 9
I told him.

He poked a cold nose into the hollow
of my hand, then sauntered around the
table. He waved his tail as he passed
both his master and mistress, stood a mo-
ment in thought, and withdrew as un-
hurriedly as he had come. We heard
his nails click as he passed from rug to
182

Dumb -Bell's Guest

rug on the hardwood floor of the main
hall and we listened until the sound grew
fainter and was gone.

"Back to the throne/' I said, and this
proved to be true. When we went to the
living-room a few moments later he was
curled up in his chair with his eyes
closed. "Asleep, eh?" I said; but he de-
nied it feebly with a slight thump of his
tail against the leather chair seat. Pres-
ently he was snoring.

"How much could you get for him?"
I asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Gregory.
"His size is against him for a stud dog."

"How much would you take?"

Gregory joined me by the chair* He
looked down at the sleeping Dumb-Bell.
"Well, I hadn't thought of selling him.
Had you, Chief?"

"Oh, yes, often. He tracks the house
183

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

up so, with his hlessed muddy paws.
Come here, you silly things, and drink
your coffee,"

Gregory took a gold and white egg-
shell of a cup to the fireplace. He stood
with his back to the fire stirring his cof-
fee thoughtfully.

"I can tell you how much he is worth,"
he said suddenly: "one million, two hun-
dred and fifteen thousand dollars."

"He should find a pleasant home for
that," I said. "Would you throw off
the fifteen thousand for cash?" Then I
saw that he was serious. "What do you
mean?" I asked. "Why the exact sum?"

"Do you happen to know an old Mr.
Parmalee, of Chicago, R. H. Parma-
lee?"

I considered a moment. "Yes, I think
I do. That is, I knew of him when I
was scratching for the Tribune. He's
184

Dumb -Bell's Guest

the bete noir of the higher-ups in Wall
Street. He lives in Chicago, won't leave
it, and is chairman of the board or a big
stockholder in heaven knows how many
Eastern concerns. He won't go East
to board meetings, so board meetings go
to him, and the elect groan and moan at
the trip. He hates ostentation like the
devil, and looks like a tramp. Is he the
man you mean?"

"Yes, that's the man. Especially the
tramp part."

"He's a queer old codger," I said*
"He supports a flock of no-account rela^
lives who are ashamed to meet him on
the street."

A coffee spoon clattered. "He's not a
queer old codger!" said Mrs, Gregory.
"He's a dear! I adore him. Imagine
being ashamed to meet him! What do
his clothes matter? Why "
185

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Hold on there," Gregory put in.
"What did you say when Griggs took
him upstairs? Griggs was carrying his
bag as though it might explode at any
moment What was it you said?"

Mrs. Gregory recovered her spoon.
*Tm sure IVe forgotten."

"You asked me where I'd picked him
up, didn't you?"

"Well, perhaps I did, but I simply
meant "

Gregory turned to me. "If you
should hear your hostess ask where you
had been picked up, how would it strike
you?"

"Why, has he been here?" I asked.
"Where did you meet him? What's all
this about, anyway?"

"It's about what the Chief was tell-
ing you on the terrace. Are you ready
to smoke? Cigarettes in that silver doo*
186

Dumb -Bell's Guest

dab. Cigars just behind you. Want a
liqueur? Well, take that other chair; it's
more comfortable. Don't interrupt at
mere exaggeration. Chief. Man, it would
make a play! Perhaps you can do
something with it. And I thought I
was doing a kind act." He grinned at
his wife. "Succoring the poor and
needy, eh, Chief? She was Lady Boun-
tifulOh, golly! And then Dumb-Bell
saved the day. And the Chief I think
he was fond of the Chief, too, she'd
been so sweet to the poor old man.
He"

"Are you going to tell what happened,
or are you going to stand there and "

"Well, you tell him!"

"Indeed I'll not. Sit down here and
be serious. You were serious enough
then."

Gregory's smile was gone the instant
187

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

she had spoken. "Yes, Chief," he said
gravely. "We were both a bit serious,
I thought." He left the fireplace and
let himself slowly down into a chair
close to where his wife was sitting. "I
hope we'll never be quite so serious
again." He crossed his long legs, lit
a cigar, and stared into the bluish flames
of the applewood fire. "The war did
it," he said at last. "And playing a
new game. Do you know anything
about high explosive shells?"

"Not a tiling," I said. "Except that
they go off with a bang, and everybody's
getting rich making them."

"Just so. That's what I knew, last
year. Of course I thought, still think,
the Allies are doing our work. We
didn't have the sweepers to get into
the housecleaning properly and they
needed brooms. Well, things'!! be more
188

Dumb -Bell's Guest

tidy when they get through, but it's been
a dirty job, A year ago it looked bad.
I rather wanted to help in a small
way,

"Of course you know I'm not very
active at the works. Braithwaite runs
things to suit himself, and that lets me
knock about pretty much as I please.
He loves work and I love play, and there
you are everybody satisfied.

"Well, along comes a chap from the
Midland Iron Company with his pockets
full of subcontracts and his head full of
everything from barbed wire to aero-
planes. He spent two days with Braith-
waite and Gaston, and they came up
here, all mad as hatters, and routed me
out. The idea was to build a plant in
nine or ten minutes and take on the ma-
chining of three million three-inch high
explosives for Russia on a subcontract
189

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

from Midland Iron, who'd furnish the
rough casings.

"All play and no work makes Jack a
bright boy, and I inquired gently about
Midland Iron.

"They smiled at me pityingly. 'Yon
tell him/ said Braithwaite. So the sub-
contract chap mentioned the names of
the directors in a hushed voice, and I
blinked. 'But/ I said, 'I've never heard
of it before, and outside of hunting sea-
son I do read the papers now and then/
They explained that it was a lot of junk
consolidated solely for war business with
'all the money in the world' behind it.
This was so, all right. Both Dun and
Bradstreet sent a report a few days later
that made me blink again.

"Well, there seemed to be a, quarter
of a million in it sure, but I went in
more for the reason I've told you than
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Dumb -Bell's Guest

for the profit on the job* Business had
been bad for two years and I was down
pretty fine; but all you had to do was
to mention Midland Iron at any bank
and you could walk in and help your-
self. We built a plant equipment,
three hundred lathes, three hundred elec-
tric motors, and a lot of odds and ends. I
went on the paper, of course.

"There was some delay at first. We
wanted master gauges, and Midland
couldn't let us have 'em. When we
hollered they passed the buck to Russia.
The Grand Dukes were too busy or too
tired or something to send on the draw-
ings, so we paid three hundred machin-
ists for an eight-hour day and they sat
among the lathes and played pinochle.
We didn't dare let 'em go. Skilled labor
is skilled labor these days. That was
all right, because we put it up to Mid-
191

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

land and they never whimpered. Just
O.K/d our pay roll and charged it te
the Czar, I guess.

"This went on for two months. Then
we got our gauges and a Russian in-
spector who talked French, all in one
day; and the rough cases began to roll
in from Midland in trainload lots, and
pinochle ceased to be a vocation around
there.

"All during this the field trial season
was on, and it was breaking my heart.
We had a nice birdy pup by Dumb-Bell
out of Miss Nance in the derbys, and
Peter went to a trial or two. He came
home quite gloomy, though, because the
pointers were winning all down the line.
* 'Ell-'ooping all over the country like a
lot o' gray'ounds/ is what he told me.
'Don't they find birds?' I asked, and I
gathered from what he said that when a
192

Dumb -Bell's Guest

pointer stumbled over a bevy he stopped
in astonishment.

"War or no war, I was going to see
the National at least, and things got to
running so nicely I decided to make it
three weeks and take in the United
States and another stake. Braithwaite
said to go he was glad to get rid of
me, I think. I left for the South with
everybody happy and the Russian in-
spector walking around twisting his lit-
tle stick-up mustache and saying f C*est
tres Hen' at everything, including the
three-star Hennessey, which he liked and
we furnished. He drank a quart a day
without a quiver. Think of it!

"Peter was right about the pointers. It
was a pointer year. They were a poor
lot, too; but the setters were worse, and
our crowd was in the dumps. There was
a lot of grumbling about the judging.
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Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

Some of us think that first of all a bird
dog must find birds. We believe he can
go just as fast as his nose will let him and
no faster. And that brings me to old Mr.
Parmalee.

"He got in the second night of the Uni-
ted States. He had the same old frowsy
leather bag he has brought to every field
trial as long as anybody can remember.
He was looking seedy, even for him, and
that's saying a good deal. He came in
the door of the hotel, and the boys yelled
at him and grabbed him and hammered
him on the back, and he blushed he's a
diffident little old cuss.

"Nobody knew anything about him, ex-
cept that he came down to the trials year
after year, that he loved a setter as well
as any man in the world, and that he was
a stickler for nose rather than speed.
He'd forget all embarrassment and speak

Dumb -Bell's Guest

right up when it came to arguing about
that.

"He had a bully round with Fosdick of
the Argot strain that first night. Fosdick
was a little overbearing, I thought he
has a twenty-thousand-acre preserve on
the James River and twenty feet of water
at his own dock when he runs down in his
yacht and finally he said: 'Well, if you
don't like the kind of dogs we're sending
to the trials, why don't you breed some to
suit you?'

"Everybody felt uncomfortable. You
don't hear things like that often at the
trials.

"But the old gentleman looked Fos-
dick in the eye and came back as pat
as you please. 'I don't have to breed one/
he said; 'it's already been done. If you
want to find out just what you've got,
pick out the best one you ever bred and
195

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

put him down for three hours with Brook-
field Dumb-Bell/

"Well, the setter men yelled at that -
everybody did, in fact and Fosdick shut
up like a clam. The old gentleman came
over to where I was sitting, and we talked
for the rest of the evening.

"He said that he was from Chicago,
and that he took his vacation each year
when the National was run. He said he
hoped to 'slip out of the harness some day'
and spend the rest of his life with a
twenty gauge and a pair of Llewellyns.
I thought perhaps he was keeping books;
I don't know why, except that he was
stoop-shouldered and spoke of having to
work too hard at his age. I had a vision
of him perched on a high stool doing
double entry.

"I didn't see much of him after that un-
til the finals of the Championship. He
196

Dumb -Bell's Guest

rode with me that afternoon, and we f ol
lowed the dogs as best we could, hoping
for bird work, which we didn't get. H<
was fairly chipper when we started, bu1
as the dogs ran he got more and more
quiet, I don't think he spoke once during
the last hour.

"Well, they gave it to a rangy, wild-
eyed, bitch-headed pointer who had cov-
ered most of a county and found twc
bevies and one single in three hours' run-
ning ; and I rode home with old Mr. Par-
malee. He got off his horse and sighed,
and went into the hotel without a word.

"I went upstairs and packed. When I
came down he was standing looking out
the window, and I walked over to him.

"The new champion was on leash in

front of the hotel with a crowd around

him. His handler was telling everybody

what a great dog they were looking at,

197

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Once he said: 'He's a bird dog, men! 5
and old Mr. Parmalee snorted. He
turned to me and, by George, he looked
all broken up. 'This is my last trip/ he
said; Tm getting too old to come down
here and see what we saw today/

"I said something about it being an off
year, but he didn't answer. He looked
out the window and clicked with his
tongue. 'So that's a National Champion!'
he said. Then he turned to me again.
'Five years ago today/ he said, 'I saw a
real champion win this stake. I can re-
member every move he made. He found
sixteen bevies and twenty-three singles,
and he went a mile at every cast. I have
wanted to see something like that again,
. . . but I don't think I shall ... I don't
think I shall/

"I'm something of a *;oft ass at times,
and he looked rather old and forlorn; so
198

Dumb -Bell's Guest

I took hold of his arm and said, "You
come back to Brookfield with me, and
we'll shoot some quail over him and watch
him work for a week or so. What do you
say?'

"He said a lot about being an old nui-
sance and that sort of thing, but his eyes
were shining like a child's, and I hustled
him upstairs and helped him pack his duds
you should have seen 'em and we
caught the five o'clock train. The Chief
met us at the front door next day and
Dumb-Bell was standing beside her.

"I didn't see much of him after that
I had other things on my mind but the
Chief took him under her wing, and he
took to it all like a wet setter to a wood
fire. Didn't he, Chief?"

"He was just sweet; one of the very
nicest guests we ever had. He under-
stood everything so. Of course at first I
199

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

was well, not startled exactly, but Jim
chums with terrible creatures if they shoot
well or can walk as far as he can. You
know he adores that Slade man who's been
in jail I don't know how many times, and
sells whisky on the sly, and fights bull-
dogs and game chickens. Jim takes him
to the gun room and they sit and roar
at each other. Sometimes I wonder who
tells the worst stories, the Slade man or
Jim.

"Jim hadn't told me he was bringing
anyone home with him, and when they got
out of the motor and I saw Mr. Parmalee
for the first time, well! really his clothes
are shocking. And his collars and cuffs
and ties! And his hat! Where do you
suppose he got that hat, Jim? Then he
was not at all at his ease when Jim pre-
sented him; I didn't know how diffident
he was, then, so when he went upstairs I
200

Dumb -Bell's Guesi

asked Jim what he told you just now."

Gregory chuckled. "About picking
him up, she means. He's worth a hun-
dred millions."

"What of it? If he hadn't been the
charming old thing he is what difference
would that make?"

"Of course, of course; but, even so,
"picking up' a multimillionaire isn't the
way I'd put it exactly."

"It wasn't any time until I knew. He
had beautiful old-school manners when his
shyness wore off. Mr. Braithwaite had
been telephoning for Jim, so he went off
to the works, and I showed Mr. Parmalee
the place, and he loved it all. We spent
most of the afternoon at the kennels. He
knew Peter, he'd seen him somewhere at
the trials, and they looked at all the dogs
and talked and talked. Then I showed
him Roderigo's grave in the orchard, and
201

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

he stood looking down at it, and I knew I
was going to like him.

"We came to the house because he
wanted to see Dumb-Bell again, but the
mannie was out in the garden digging for
moles with his face all dirty. He was
having a splendid time and I didn't want
to call him in, and Mr. Parmalee said, 'Of
course not/

"We had tea in here and Mr. Par-
malee sat down in Dumb-Bell's chair
not knowing and I asked him if he
would mind changing his seat. He looked
surprised and embarrassed, and said,
'Why, certainly.' So when he had taken
another chair I told him.

"I said that Roderigo had had it first
and it was his very own chair. And then
it was empty for a long time, and then
Dumb-Bell did what he did, and now it
was his, and nobody else sat in it.
202

Dumb -Bell's Guest

"Mr. Parmalee said, 'I see, I see/ and
went over and looked at the chair, and
then he said, rather to himself, 'It's not
for mere humans, is it?' and then he blew
his nose.

" "Sometimes/ I said, 'people sit in it
and hold him in their laps. That's all
right, of course/ And he said, 'I should
like to do that very much'; and then we
had our tea. We got along splendidly
after that."

"I should say they did," said Gregory.
"She took to the Lady Bountiful business
like a duck. She fancied she was showing
the poor old man the time of his life."

"I was," said Mrs. Gregory calmly.

"He's coming back, at any rate. And
the Lord knows I didn't do so much to
make his visit pleasant. After I saw
Braithwaite I didn't have time to work
dogs for old Mr. Parmalee or anybody
203

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

else. I told him I was busy, and Peter
took him out every morning, and he
knocked about with the Chief in the after-
noon. It was out of season, but I told
Peter to let the old man kill a few quail
over Dumb-Bell just to say he'd done
it. I thought Peter would shoot me.

"He came up to the house that night,
though, and looked at me as though I
were a convict. It seems the old man had
refused point blank to take a gun along
out of season. E's a sportsman/ said
Peter, 'and, 'eaven knows, they're rare
enough!' I admitted it, and Peter left
with his head in the air.

"This was at first. I saw the old chap
each night of course and he'd describe
every point Dumb-Bell had made that
day. Later he could have had a fit in the
front hall without my noticing it."

"That isn't so. Through it all he re-
204

Dumb -Bell's Guest

membered his guest. At dinner he'd sit
with a look on his face that made me want
to scream, and talk hunting dogs and field
trials and trout fishing with that old man,
and laugh at his stories, too."

"Stuff. I simply wanted to forget dur-
ing dinner that I owed a million."

"What!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, yes," said Gregory cheerfully.
"Well over a million. I gave you the
figures a while ago."

"It isn't possible!"

"That's what I said until Braithwaite
got through. It's quite simple. Our con-
tract was for three dollars and forty-five
cents per shell for three million shells and
it was costing us three eighty-five and a
half to turn 'em out."

"But how could that be? Why were
your estimates so far off?"

"New game. We didn't know the an-
205

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

gles. And then things broke badly for
us. For instance, we figured on three
hundred lathes at eight hundred dollars.
Well, everything went sky high and our
lathes cost fifteen hundred each, and we
had to get down on our knees and pray
for 'em at that price. Same thing with
our motors. They should have been a
hundred and thirty-five; they were two
hundred and fifty. We figured on seven-
teen-cent copper, which is high enough.
We paid twenty-six cents a pound for
<every pound, and you could take it or
leave it, they didn't care which ; so every
band on every shell cost forty-five cents
instead of thirty-two. Then we got into
a mess through improper heat treatment.
The cases were annealed at too low a tem-
perature, and they broke our machines
and chewed up our tools and played the
dickens generally. Same with the fuse
206

Dumb -Bell's Guest

sockets. We'd figured on free-cutting
cold-rolled bar stock, point forty-five*
Instead it was fifty-eight to sixty, and ma-
chine tools holler for help in that kind of
going. Oh, it was a fine party, but ex-
pensive.

"To make everything perfect, the Rus-
sian inspector left the Hennessey long
enough to wander from the office over to
the plant and throw out the first batch
of finished shells because the interiors
weren't smooth.

"Of course anyone knows the exterior
of a shell must be polished on account of
air friction, but the inside

"Braithwaite kept his temper somehow,
so he told me, and asked in bad French if
they wanted 7 em polished just to be tidy,
or what? And the inspector explained
that the trinitro toluol went into 'em un-
der pressure and was extremely sensitive.
207

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

Therefore a little roughness of the
chamber wall might cause a spark if the
shell were dropped, in which case
Touf!'

"'Oh, pouf! eh?' said Braithwaite.
'Well, we're a liberal crowd; at three
forty-five we throw in a "pouf" with every
shell.' But our Russian friend drew him
gently to the office and got out the con-
tract and it read: 'Surfaces must be pol-
ished.' One little s did the trick and
Braithwaite beat the inspector to the Hen-
nessey bottle.

"Of course we put it up to Midland at
once, by letter, by wire, by long distance ;
then Braithwaite and I went on. After
wrestling with 'em for two days and a
night they agreed to allow us ten cents a
shell, and that was final.

"I came home with two hands and the
clothes on my back. I'm a good wing
208

Dumb'BelVs Guest

shot, throw a fairly accurate fly, and
I'll be forty next month.

"I sat in the smoker all night. I kept
seeing the Chief in the rose garden. She
had on a floppy pink sun hat and she cut
roses, armloads of 'em and sang."

Gregory stopped abruptly.

"Good Lord!" I said. I saw white fin-
gers steal over and twine themselves about
a lean brown hand clenched on the chair
arm. I became absorbed in the fireplace
with its bed of glowing ashes.

"Isn't it the deuce," said Gregory at
last, "what just money will do! Just
money. Think of it!"

I thought of it while the big clock tick-
tocked in the hall, and something was
done with an absurdly small handkerchief,
and the pinched look left Gregory's face.

"I hadn't told the Chief anything," he
began again. "I'd been hoping that Mid-
209

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

land might see us through. Of course
she knew something was in the wind, but
she hadn't an idea how bad it was. On
the train coming back I made up my mind
to tell her as soon as I got in the house;
so we walked in here as soon as we'd said
hello.

"She asked me if I was tired, and I
said 'A little,' and looked about the room.
I'd forgotten old Mr. Parmalee was on
earth, but I thought a servant might be
about. I never looked in the bay window.
There's nothing there but the chair and
no one would be sitting in that.

"I sat down where you're sitting now,
and I said, 'Come here, Chief/ and she
came and sat in my lap, and then I told
her.

"I got far enough along to mention
Midland Iron, and then I heard a noise
in the bay window as though someone had
210

Dumb -Bell's Guest

moved a foot on the floor. I said,, 'Wait
a moment/ to the Chief, and got up and
went over to the chair.

"Old Mr. Parmalee was sitting there
with Dumb-Bell asleep in his lap. The
dog was wet and muddy and snoring
you know how he snores when he's tired.

" 'Oh, hello !' I said, and the old chap
looked as though I'd caught him stealing
the silver.

" 'I didn't want to wake him/ he said
in a whisper ; and I said, 'Won't he ruin
your clothes?'

"He didn't answer just looked down
at the dog. 'We've had a wonderful day/
he said, 'wonderful!' And I said, 'That's
good/ and took the Chief in the library,
and finished telling her there.

"I had dinner alone with the old man
that night. The Chief couldn't come
down. You see she'd got both barrels at
211

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

once, and it flattened her out for a few
hours,

"I didn't say much, and neither did he.
As soon as we'd had coffee I asked him to
excuse me, and he said, 'Certainly/ but he
fidgeted a bit and finally got out that he
wanted to ask a favor, and I told him to
go ahead.

"He said, 'You know I expected to
leave tomorrow morning/ I said, 'Yes.'
I hadn't known it, but I wanted to get
rid of him, under the circumstances.

" 'Would it be asking too much/ he
said, c if I stayed a day or so longer? 5 I
told him to go ahead and stay. I wasn't
very cordial, I'm afraid. I wanted to
get up to the Chief, and I wanted him
to go.

"I didn't see him at all next morning*
The Chief wanted to look at the place and
wanted me with her, so we wandered
212

Dumb-Bell's Guest

about and looked at everything as though
we were seeing it for the first time."

"We were/ 5 Mrs. Gregory put in; "I
saw things I'd never seen before."

"What with?" asked Gregory.

"Oh 5 I didn't cry all the time just
when things happened that would nearly
kill you. . . . The cows, with their big
kind eyes, all giving as much milk as they
possibly could. And the work horses, the
dear old work horses that would go away
from the safe, warm stables. And the
dogs, our own little doggies that were so
glad to see us. And the grass and the
trees and the fields, and Peter and Jerry
and Felix and all the men, so good and
faithful, who had to be taken care of when
they grew old. They were all so proud of
what they were doing, even the man who
was putting in tile, Jim, do you remem-
ber?"

213

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Yes," said Gregory.

"And then we came back to the house
and in here and there was the chair, all
worn, and " the ridiculous handkerchief
was out again, " and then I wanted to
die before it all happened. . , . And just
then just then You tell him, Jim!"

"Well," said Gregory, "just then old
Mr. Parmalee came in, very much embar-
rassed, and asked if we were in trouble.
And the Chief said yes, we were. And
old Mr*. Parmalee asked if he couldn't
help. And I said no, and thanked him.
Then he said"

"And the way he said it, Jim! 'Some-
times people can help other people/
That's what he said. Wasn't it, Jim?"

Gregory nodded. "Well, of course I
said he couldn't help in this case, and he
said, 'I heard you mention Midland Iron
yesterday. Has that corporation any*

Dumb- Bell* s Guest

thing to do with it?' I was surprised he
even knew the name, but I said yes, and
he said, 'If that's the case I think you'd
better tell me about it.* He sat down
then and folded his arms as though ready
to listen, and for some reason, I don't
know why, I sat down, too, and told him
the whole business.

"When I got through he said, 'Yes, I
see. 9 Then he got up and walked over
and looked down at Dumb-Bell and said,
'He'd have to leave his chair as things are,
wouldn't he?' Then he looked at the
Chief, 'We can't have that, can we?'
he said, and the Chief began to weep
again.

"The old man said, 'There, there/ and
picked up the phone and asked for long
distance, and then for A. L. Warrington
at Pittsburgh he's president of Mid-
land. I thought the old man had lost his
215

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

mind. I sat there looking at him, wonder-
ing what the deuce Warrington would
say when he found what he had on the
wire.

"Nobody said anything while we waited
for the connection. I patted the Chief
while she sniffled, and the old man patted
Dumb-Bell while he snored. It was quite
a tableau. At last the bell rang.

" 'Hello P said the old man. 'Is that
you, Alfred? This is Mr* Parmalee.'
Think that over for a moment ! The presi-
dent of Midland Iron was Alfred and
that old scarecrow was Mr. Parmalee!
'Alfred/ he said, 'do you know anything
about a contract with the Gregory Fur-
nace Company for machining three-inch
shells r

"Evidently Warrington said he did. If
he didn't he had a poor memory; I'd spent
sixteen hours with him over it. 'Well,'
216

Dumb -Bell's Guesi

said the old man, 'have a new contract
made out at three-ninety per shell, and
mail it to Gregory tomorrow. Do you
understand, Alfred? ... All right.' Then
he rang off,

"The Chief and I were sitting there
gaping. I was wondering if I were crazy,
too.

"The old man coughed nervously we
were both staring at him then he said,
'You see, it just happens that I have an
interest in er that is, I own a majority
of stock in er the Midland Iron Com-
pany.' Then he sneaked out of the room.
He was frightfully embarrassed."

Gregory tossed what was left of his
cigar into the fire. We watched the small
flame it made until it flickered into a wisp
of smoke.

The sound of snoring in the bay win-
dow ceased. Dumb-Bell sat up in his
217

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

chair, yawned tremendously, regarded us
all for a moment and grinned.

"Oh, yes," said Gregory, "it's very
funny now"

ORDERED ON

VI

ORDERED ON

fTlHE wood fire leaped and crackled,
-- and shot small embers out upon the
bricks. The embers changed from white
to red, from red to gray, from gray to
sullen black. Their lives were short. One
moment glowing, brilliant dead smudges
on the hearth the next. Dumb-Bell
watched them,

It was the first time Dumb-Bell had
noticed the embers. His chair had always
stood in the bay window across the big
room. That day they had moved it nearer
the fire. He wondered why.

They had moved the leather-covered
stool, too. He blinked down at it. The
leather-covered stool had stood, for the
221

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

past six months, just in front of his chair.
He had disliked it at first because it was
strange. He disliked strange things that
interfered with his habits. It had been
his habit, until the last year, to get into his
chair by a single easy bound. Then he
had found it better to put his forepaws in
the chair seat, pull one hind leg up, and
then the other.

One day he had hunted quail from a
pink dawn to a red eve. They had taken
out as his brace mate young Susan White-
stone, who was something of a flibber-
tigibbet. The perverse creature had in-
sisted on flying to far dim thickets in her
searchings, leaving nearer cover unex-
plored. It was that way with the young
success was always just over the hill.
Dumb-Bell had humored the silly thing,
had even been caught up by her infec-
tious, sweeping flights. He had run with-
222

Ordered On

out restraint, without dignity, with aban-
don.

Not as he had run in those all-conquer-
ing days when his sobriquet was the White
Ghost ; but he had held the flitting Susan,
even, for a time, and there was this differ-
ence between them: now and then she
would flash blithely past a bit of cover,
without a thought, without a sign; and
then he would come plunging by, weary
in heels and heart, but with a champion's
nose. One instant he was in his stride,
the next moveless, high-headed, tense.
Within the thicket, perhaps a hundred
feet away, was a breathless huddle of

Si

brown feathers and close-held wings!

And then the airy Susan would come
creeping back, awed by the splendor of
his pose, vaguely troubled by the thought
that, flit as she might for all her days,
such miracles were not for her.
223

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

That night, when Dumb-Bell put his
forepaws in the chair his hind legs, for
some reason, refused to follow. He had
tried to lift them up, his toes scratching
on the slippery leather, until his mistress
came and helped him into the chair.

Limping in from the garden next day
Dumb-Bell had found the stool before his
chair. He waited for someone to move it.
No one did, and he decided to climb into
the chair despite it. He found the stool
was like a step. By using it he could
walk right into his chair. He tried it sev-
eral times to make sure. It worked per-
fectly every time. From then on he liked
the stool.

And now they had moved his chair and
his stool nearer the fire. It had seemed a
little chilly in the bay window the last few
nights. It must be a very cold fall. It
was certainly nice and warm here by the
224

Ordered On

fire. And then he could watch the em-
bers.

He was alone with the fire and his
thoughts. He could hear a faint murmur
of voices coming from the dining-room.
The people were about the pleasant, glis-
tening table. It might be well to go in
there and stand by his mistress. Then,
just before Griggs took her plate away,
her fork would come stealing down quite
quietly with something delicious on the
end. He would be careful not to let his
teeth. click on the silver tines. Not that
it made any difference who heard, but they
had done it that way for years.

It had begun when he was always hun-
gry and inclined to beg, and perhaps
annoy the guests, and rules had been
made. Nowadays he was never very hun-
gry and guests were never annoyed at
anything he did. They were, as a matter
225

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

of fact, quite flattered if he noticed them
at all.

Dumb-Bell raised his head from his
paws, stirred, and glanced at the door. It
was a long way to the dining-room, and
he was not in the least hungry. He had
left three pieces of liver untouched on his
plate in the butler's pantry. . . .

He was still watching the embers when
the people came in from dinner his mas-
ter and mistress and that old man named
Parmalee. Dumb-Bell gave the two
thumps on the chair seat which hospitality
required, and Mr. Parmalee came and
scratched him back of the ears.

It was pleasant, this scratching. He
closed his eyes. The voices and the snap-
ping of the fire grew fainter and fainter.
At last they drifted away altogether, and
he was in a queer thicket in which quail
rose with a whir at every step he took but
226

Ordered On

gave no scent, although he tried and tried
to smell them. Why he ? Champion Brook-
field Dumb-Bell, was flushing birds! It
was horrible. He twitched and whined
in his sleep.

While he slept the people talked.

"Jim/ 3 said Mr. Parmalee, "I've come
here this time to tell you something, I've
discovered the Happy Hunting Ground,
I want to take you there."

The master of Brookfield looked at him
inquiringly.

"I not only discovered it, I made it,"
Mr. Parmalee went on. "No, I can't say
that. Come to think of it, the Good Lord
did most of the work. I just put on the
finishing touches. It's in Minnesota."

"Are there quail up there?" asked
Gregory doubtfully. "I've understood
not. Nothing to speak of, at any rate."

"No, no," said Mr. Parmalee. "Bob-
227

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

white must have his comforts his corn
and his ragweed and his wheat. Some
day, perhaps, he'll get there, but not now.
The wilderness frightens him. We'll hunt
a braver bird, king of them all."

"Ruffed grouse!" said the master of
Brookfield quickly.

"Just so," said Mr. Parmalee, and then
he explained. He owned, it seemed, a
big tract of timber land in northern Min-
nesota. He coughed slightly as he ad-
mitted it the things he owned embar-
rassed Mr. Parmalee. He had gone up
there last year. He wanted to see the
great pines tremble, sway, and crash down
before the deep biting axes and snoring
saws of the lumberjacks. He had seen
this, and other things. In particular he
had seen, or rather heard, the flight of in-
numerable ruffed grouse getting up be-
fore him in the thickets.
228

Ordered On

It was all but impenetrable cover, much
too thick for wing shooting ; and yet here
was a country filled with the greatest of
all game birds. He thought about it for
several days.

In any direction he pushed his way
through second-growth pine, silver birch,
alders, and a riot of bushes and vines,
a thrilling roar of wings was all about
him.

One night he talked with the logging
superintendent who recommended and
sent for one Red Harry, log boss extraor-
dinary. He came, a big red man, as thick
'through the chest as one of the pines he
smote, and stood in the doorway. Mr.
Parmalee told him what he wanted.
Could it be done?

"Sure, anything kin be done; but it'll
cost"

"That's my part of it," said Mr. Par-
229

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

malee, who had taken stock of his man
and was never embarrassed when it came
to large affairs.

Red Harry turned and spat unhur-
riedly through the doorway. "I'll get a
hundred rough-necks from Brainerd.
You want some of the stuff left standin',
an' brush heaps made every little bit*
Have I got you right?"

"Exactly. If you thin it too much the
birds will leave, and they like brush
heaps,,"

"Twenty square miles?"

"About that," said Mr. Parmalee; "and
a good, tight, four-room cabin."

"All set," said Red Harry, and
slouched into the night.

The master and mistress of Brookfield
listened to further deeds of Red Harry
and his rough-necks. The eyes of the mis-
tress of Brookfield widened at this whole-
230

Ordered On

sale conversion of the wilderness into a
shooting preserve.

"And so/' Mr. Parmalee wound up,
"the Happy Hunting Ground is ready.' 5
He turned to his hostess. "I hoped you
would come, too. It will be a little rough,
but"

"I'd love it," said Mrs. Gregory. "And
Jim will go quite mad."

"The trouble is," said Gregory, "I
haven't a dog that will do. My stuff is
all too fast for grouse. I'll talk to Peter
tomorrow though and see what he's got."

But Peter tilted his hat over one eye
and scratched the back of his head when
asked, next morning, to produce a grouse
dog. He let his eye rove down the line of
runways and back to the master of Brook-
field. A grouse dog must be a plodding,
creeping, silent worker. A field trial ken-
nel was not the place to look for one.
231

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

"Old Jane Aus'in, now, might do," said
Peter at last. "She always was sly like,
an' what with age an 7 whelpin' an' one
thing an' other she might stay around
where you could get a look at her now
and then."

"All right," said the master of Brook-
field promptly, "well take her along."

"Wait a minute," said Peter. "I ain't
told you yet. She's 'eavy in whelp to
Beau Brummell."

"Oh!" said the master of Brookfield.
"Well, why didn't you say so at first?"

"'Ow can I say it all at once?" Peter
wanted to know. "You come 'ere askin'
me this an 5 askin' me that, an' I'm just
tellin' you." He spent a moment in
thought. "Ole Bang Vs gone," he safd
meditatively. "Now the Beau 'imself
might do. 'E's slowed down to nothin'
an' Vs got a grand nose "
232

Ordered On

"Just the thing," said the master of
Brookfield. "We'll give him a trial at
any rate. What else have you got?'*

"'Old your 'orses a bit," said Peter.
"'Is rheumatism 'as been so bad 'ere late-
ly ? e can't 'ardly get out of 'is kennel."

The master of Brookfield got out his
cigarette case and seated himself on the
kennel house doorstep. There followed
a gloomy silence. It was broken by Peter
at last.

"Lord!" he exploded suddenly, "I
never thought." He folded his arms and
directed a reproachful eye at the master
of Brookfield. "You come 'ere askin' me
for a grouse dog," he said. "Why didn't
you look around afore you come?" He
nodded toward the house. "What about
*im?" he inquired. "With all the brains
an* all the nose in the world, an' 'is speed
gone from 'im. Take 'im with you up
233

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

there, an' if 'e flushes a single bird, once
*e knows what they're like, you can 'are
my wages for a year."

"I believe you're right," said the mas-
ter of Brookfield, brightening. "It's queer
I didn't think of it. And yet, when you
consider everything " He broke off,
overwhelmed by visions of the past in
wliich a white speck swept distant hori-
zons while horsemen cursed him lovingly
and galloped after.

"It is funny now, ain't it?" said Peter.
"'Untin' grouse with 'im. Lord save us!"

The pines had done it. At first Dumb-
Bell had suspected the loons which
laughed wildly from somewhere out on
the black mystery of the lake. But it
wasn't the loons ; they, at least, were alive.
It was the pines, the brooding pines and
the silence. Always before, wherever he
234

Ordered On

had gone, there had been noises, reassur-
ing noises. Early in the morning, like
this, birds should chirp and roosters crow;
dogs give tongue and cattle rumble a
greeting to the dawn. Horses might
nicker and stamp. Sheep quaver to one
another. And, best of all, there would be
human voices, or a laugh, or a song, or a
whistle. And the trees, where these things
happened, rustled comfortably and seemed
to take an interest.

All this was far away, and Dumb-
Bell had the shivers, and the pines had
done it. He had heard them all night.
When the wind blew, the pines made a
noise. He did not like that noise. The
silence in which, no matter how hard he
listened, nothing could be heard was al-
most better.

Although the kitchen fire was banked
and he lay on a shooting coat close to the
235

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

stove he had begun to shiver as the noise
went on. He had hoped that when it
stopped he would stop shivering, but the
wind had died out and the noise had
stopped, and still he shivered. He could
see the pines now through the cabin win-
dow, black and still against the sky,
plainer every minute as the light grew.
So many of them! There were a few
pines at Brookfield. There had been a
lot of them on one side of the course when
he won the Continental. He had not
shivered at them then. He had just run,
with hundreds of men watching, and
smashed into his bevy finds and gone on,
while the men yelled.

But the pines down there were smaller
and not so black and proud, and he had
been wild with excitement, for of course
he was winning, he always won, and he
knew the men would crowd about him
236

Ordered On

later and talk about him in hushed voices
while he pretended not to hear what they
said.

There had been so many people that
day. Here there were so few. His mas-
ter and mistress and Mr. Parmalee and
the cook man. That was all. And mil-
lions of pines, Dumb-Bell shivered and
watched them through the window, his
head between his paws.

They called this place the Happy
Hunting Ground; but Dumb-Bell was
not happy as he lay there, although he
had hunted every day since they came.

Of course it was not in the least like
quail hunting nothing was like that!
You went as fast as you could when you
hunted quail, and saw the country for
miles and miles. It was glorious!

But they wouldn't let him do that any
more, and these new birds were interest-
287

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

ing. You must go very quietly, and at
the first faint scent slow to a walk and
then to a creep and then to a crawl, until
something told you you could go no
farther.

Dumb-Bell had flushed two grouse that
first day before he had understood how
they would burst out of the cover and
roar off when he was fifty feet away. His
master had said "Careful" to him re-
proachfully, and Dumb-Bell had grinned
in an agony of remorse. After that no
more birds were flushed. He just crept
about and found them in every direction,
while his master and Mr. Parmalee shot,
and his mistress called him silly names
and even hugged him, now and then, when
he came back with the dead bird unruffled
in his mouth.

He had disapproved of this hugging
business. He was hunting, and even
238

Ordered On

though he went slowly and was stiff for
some reason, when night came he was still
Champion Brookfield Dumb-Bell at his
work and not a "precious lamb."

This was the dawn of their last day in
the Happy Hunting Ground. Some of
the things were packed already. The
wagons would come tomorrow; and
Dumb-Bell was glad.

The wagons would take them for miles
through the pines. But the train would
come along, and after a while the pines
would not stand in towering ranks on both
sides of the track, and he would stop
shivering.

He lay and watched the pines until the
cook man came and gave the stove its
breakfast. Dumb-Bell wondered why it
always ate wood instead of the good-
smelling things that were put on top of it.

Presently his mistress called good
239

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

morning to Mr. Parmalee and came into
the kitchen, and the last day in the Happy
Hunting Ground had begun.

His mistress stayed at the cabin that
day to finish packing, and he and his mas-
ter and Mr, Parmalee started out. As
they were leaving, his mistress gave him
a hug and felt him shiver, and thought
he was cold*

But his master said, "He'll warm up
when he gets to moving. Won't you, old
snoozer?"

Dumb-Bell grinned, and galloped stiffly
to a small thicket. He skirted it with
care to show that he was ready* ... It
was much better to hunt and forget the
pines.

He did forget them all morning long.
Early in the day his master made a won-
derful double, both of them cross shots,
and soon after that Dumb-Bell pointed a
240

Ordered On

live bird a long way off, with a dead bird
in his mouth, and Mr. Parmalee well, it
wasn't exactly hugging, but it was near it.

They ate lunch in a small clearing
where the low gray sky seemed to rest on
the tops of the pine trees. Dumb-Bell
ate his two sandwiches slowly, and stared
at it.

There was something about the sky he
did not like. As he watched it the shivers
came back, and he was glad when lunch
was over and he could go to work
again.

Late in the afternoon, although he was
working as hard as he could, he began
to shiver worse than ever, and suddenly
lie knew. . . .

It was not the pines that had made him

shiver. It was something else. It was

something that was coming. It would be

here soon now. It had been coming all

241

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

night. The pines had been telling him.
Why, perhaps they were not so proud, so
aloof, as they had seemed! Perhaps they
really cared like the friendly trees at
Brookfield.

This thing that was coming was in the
sky. In the gray sky that was growing
dark now and the pines were beginning
to talk about it again.

Dumb-Bell stopped hunting, and stared
into the north. As he stared his eyes
changed, his soft, kindly, setter eyes.
They filled with green lights. Those from
which he sprang, centuries and centuries
before, had fled and died before this thing,
coming out of the north, and the sleeping
wolf within him was awake and was
afraid.

"Getting pretty dark, isn't it?" said the
master of Brookfield. "Let's hunt this
piece out and break for camp. We're
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going to have a storm I think. Dumb-
Bell! Go on, old man!"

At the words Dumb-Bell turned. Re-
bellion was in his heart. He would not
go on. He would put his tail between his
legs and run. He would run to where the
stove was that ate wood.

This tall man who said "Go on," who
was he ? Dumb-Bell looked at him wildly,
and their eyes met . . . Dumb-Bell
grinned, whined, and started not for the
stove and safety; he went carefully to-
ward a distant brush heap. There might
be a grouse in there, and the tall man, his
man, in the old tan shooting coat which
he had slept on so many times, had
ordered him to find it.

Yes, there was a grouse in the brush

heap. Dumb-Bell slowed to a creep and

then to a crawl, until something told him

he could go no farther. Then he stopped,

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Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

his eyes no longer green and shifting.
They were warm, faithful, eager the
eyes of Champion BrookfieJd Dumb-Bell
on point.

And then, with one last wailing shriek
from the pines, the thing that had been
coming, that had made him shiver so, was
there, Dumb-Bell did not move. His
fear, the fear of slinking ancestors, was
gone. What if there was a roar that
deafened him! What if it was as dark as
night! What if he could scarcely breathe
for the smothering ice particles that stung
his muzzle and filled his eyes and his nos-
trils! The years had thinned his blood
and stiffened his limbs, but his nose, which
was his soul, they could not touch. It
was the nose of a champion still, and wind
and dark and snow could not prevail
against it there was a grouse in the
brush heap.

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A blizzard was a terrible thing. The
pines had moaned all night about it. It
was here now, roaring and biting, all but
lifting him off his feet. Still there was
a grouse in the brush heap. You couldn't
change that.

The wind was the worst. It was so
hard to hold himself erect, and he must do
that, whatever happened. He was on
point, and champions pointed with a high
head and level tail.

If he moved, the grouse would flush,
and he never flushed birds. Why, long
ago, when he was a tiny puppy and they
called him the runt and were ashamed
of him, he never flushed birds. He had
pointed sparrows when they kept him
alone day after day in the runway. Of
course no one knew he was pointing and
no one came to flush the sparrows. They
would hop about in the runway for a long
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Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

time so long that his legs would begiiv
to tremble and his back would ache, and
someone should have come but no one
ever did.

It was like that now, only worse. The
wind was so cold. The winds were all
much colder, lately. This one seemed to
cut right into his chest as he held his head
high against it. His hind legs were going
back on him, too. They were beginning
to let him down a little. He must
straighten up somehow.

Why didn't they come? He was so
cold, so very cold. If he could change
his position it would help his legs. They
felt numb and queer. He felt queer all
over. But there was a grouse in the brush
heap. They would come and flush it soon,
now.

They had better hurry. He could not
hold his head up much longer. It was not
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the wind, the wind was growing warmer,
almost like summer, but he was sleepy.
That was queer. He had never felt sleepy
on point before. But then he had worked
hard today and he had not slept well last
night because of the shivers. He would
sleep better tonight, much better. Why,
he could go to sleep this minute. The
wind wouldn't hurt him. The wind was
his friend. It had blown the snow all
over him, and it was nice warm snow. It
packed itself under his chest. He could
even rest a little weight on it and help
his legs.

But they were gone away, his legs.
Back to Brookfield, perhaps. He must
go, too, back to Brookfield. It was bright
and cheerful there. And always there
were sounds that he knew, nice sounds
not like the pines and the loons.

He would come to the big gates first
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Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

and then he would leave the drive and cut
across the lawn toward the lights of the
house shining through the trees. He
would scratch on the front door and some-
one would let him in, and Peter would be
glad to see him, and so would his chair,
his own chair near the fire. And then
Hut there was a grouse in the brush heap!
He had almost forgotten . . . No, he
couldn't leave just now. He must stay
a little longer, alone in the dark in the
nice warm snow.

The snow was getting higher about him
all the time. Perhaps it would cover him
up after a while. He was not very big.
They had called him the runt long ago . . .
He had never flushed birds, though, even
then. And now, although his master
called him old" snoozer, he was Champion
Brookfield Dumb-Bell, with his picture
in the papers, and there was a grouse in
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the brush heap! A grouse in the
brush heap . , .

The mistress of Brookfield raised her
gun. "All ready, Tom," she said.

The cook put his shoulder to the door
and let it swing open a scant foot. There
was a whistling shriek, the room was filled
with a vortex of snow, both lamps went
out, and the cook threw his weight against
the door until the latch clicked in its
socket. It was done in five seconds, prac-
tice had made him perfect; but a tongue
of flame had leaped out of the door as
the twelve-gauge spoke in an abrupt yelp
that just managed to rise above the voice
of the storm.

The cook lit the lamps again. Mrs.
Gregory dropped the gun butt to the
floor and felt the muscles of her right arm.
She was shooting three and a quarter

Dumb -Bell of Brook field

" "- ' -I' ' i " " ' ' "I ' " "

drams of nitro. Her own little twenty-
gauge could not have been heard to the
edge of the clearing. Her arm and shoul-
der were bruised to a throbbing ache.

She stood at the door listening for a
time, then she broke the gun and slipped
a shell in the right barrel. "All ready,
Tom?"

"Yes, ma'am,"

This time the heavy charge made her
stagger and forced an "Oh!" of pain
through her clenched teeth.

The cook reached for the gun. "You
can't do that no more," he said, "It'll
tear the arm off of you."

"I must," she said. "I can't hold the
door. If the lamp blows over again it
might explode."

"I'll hold her or bust a lung," said the
cook, "an' shoot with one hand."

Mrs. Gregory drew the gun away and
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gave the cook a white smile. "You're a
good man/' she said with a nod. "When
this is over you must come back with us
to What was that?"

The cook listened intently. He heard
what he had heard for the past hour, the
shriek of the wind and the rattle of ice
particles against the window.

But the mistress of Brookfield was a
woman, and women listen with more than
ears.

"Open the door!" she cried. "Quick,
quick!"

The cook obeyed. For an instant the
lamplight cut a yellow square a few yards
into the blackness before the door. It
was filled with a myriad particles of hiss-
ing snow. These gave place to a stagger-
ing figure that carried another figure in
its arms. Then the lamps blew out again.

When they were lighted a man of ice
251

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

stood in the room. He crackled and
tinkled when he moved, but he had the
voice of the master of Brookfield.

"Glad you fired," he croaked. "I'd
been hoping you would." He looked
down at the quiet figure he carried.
"Come and get him, Tom. I can't unbend
my arms."

The mistress of Brookfield did not ex-
plain that she had been firing for an hour
or more. She flew to the medicine case,
then to the kitchen, then back with a
steaming kettle. It was not until Mr.
Parmalee stirred beneath the blankets a
few moments later, then opened his eyes
and muttered her name, that she flew to
the master of Brookfield and asked a
question.

"Where," she said, "is Dumb-Bell?"

The master of Brookfield sat in an un-
heated room with his hands in a dishpan
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filled with snow. His face, despite him,
was twisted with pain. But the pain in
his eyes as she met them was not physical.
It was deeper and more lasting than the
small agony of frozen fingers.

"I ordered him on/' he said, "just be-
fore it hit us. I looked as long as I
dared, and fired and whistled. I thought
he'd come back here."

"Oh!" she said, with a sudden intaking
of the breath. She returned to the main
room and picked up the twelve-gauge.
She picked the cook up bodily with her
eyes and set him at the door, daring him
with the same look to mention her arm
and shoulder.

"All ready, Tom," she said. "He'll
come to the gun if he hears it."

She fired until her blue-black arm re-
fused to lift the twelve-gauge any longer.
Then she took a camp stool close to the
253

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

door and sat there, waiting listening for
a whine or a scratch that never came.

When a grayness appeared at the win-
dows at last, the outside world was still
in a shrieking, whirling frenzy. But an
hour later the storm swept away to the
south as abruptly as it had come, and a
red sun was climbing a salmon sky above
the snow-bowed pines.

Beneath the pines the drifted snow was
blue, but in the clearings it was a daz-
zling, shimmering pink which crept up
the pines themselves, changing them to
lavender plumes filled with violet shad-
ows.

Not a breath of wind remained. The
pines were only painted on a painted sky.
The pink snow, too, was painted. The
whole wilderness had become unreal. It
was too scenic, too theatrical to be true,
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and Mrs. Gregory gasped as she stepped
into it.

"Jim/' she said, "this isn't the world,
is it ? There never were such colors in the
world before."

The master of Brookfield squinted at
the blushing snow, the unbelievable sky,
and the still miracle of the pines with their
impossible shadows.

"Why, no," he said, at last "It isn't-
the world. It's the Happy Hunting
Ground, don't you remember?"

At this she looked at him.

"Ah, little Chief!" he said. And one
of his bandaged hands fumbled for one
of hers, and found it, and so they set out
with Tom ahead breaking trail and Mr.
Parmalee waving feebly from the door-
way.

They floundered on, peering into thick-
ets, eying small mounds of snow fearfully
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Dumb -Bell of Brookjield

but passing them without examination.
They would not admit, just yet, that one
of those innocent mounds could have a
dreadful secret. Now and then Tom
would fire into the air, and they would
stop and listen to the echoes of the shot
crashing among the pines. They called,
of course, and the master of Brookfield
whistled, but the clearings were filled with
snow and sunlight and the thickets with
snow and shadows, and that was all.

At last they found something. It was
a gun standing against a tree.

"It's mine," said Gregory. "Now I
know where I am."

He broke open the gun, took out the
shells, and blew the snow from the bar-
rels. He slipped the shells into the breech
automatically, closed the gun, and looked
about him.

"We were standing in the middle of
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that clearing," he said, pointing, "and I
ordered him on. He went toward the
farther end that's north, isn't it, Tom?
and then it hit us, and I never saw him
after that. Chief, you stand here to give
us our bearings and we'll make a circle
around you. You go one way, Tom, and
I'll go the other. We'll make the first
circle to take in the edge of the clearing
and widen for the next when we meet."

The mistress of Brookfield stood and
watched them go. Somehow it was a com*
fort to be here where the mannie had been.
His blessed paws must have pattered by
close to where she was standing. She
knew exactly how he looked when he went
by. He would be so earnest, so intent.
He seemed to take on a remoteness when
at work that shut her away almost com-
pletely from him. It was almost a sacri-
lege to hug him when he had to come in
257

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

with a dead bird and could not avoid her.
But who could help it when he looked like
that, so proud and important!

If she had only been here yesterday. If
she only had! If it was only now, this
minute, that he was passing and she could
call his name and see by the flicker of his
eye that he heard!

She tried it. "Dumb-Bell!" she said
softly. "Mannie! Oh, Mannie !" ... She
could not see whether he passed or not.
She could see nothing until she found a
handkerchief in her sweater pocket.

Then, when she could see again, her
heart stopped beating, for Tom was wav-
ing to her and calling, and she ran toward
him floundering, stumbling, falling in the
snow.

When she had crossed the clearing and
saw what Tom was looking at she gave a
cry of thankfulness and joy. ... There
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was the mannie alive! He was standing
deep in the snow. He was pointing with
a high head and a level tail as he always
did.

And then she saw a look of amazement
in Tom's face. She came closer, and the
light left her eyes as she sank down on a
log and covered them with her hands. . . .
She did not move when the master of
Brookfield came and stood beside her.

Dumb-Bell was in a small glade, just
beyond the shadow of a great black pine.
He seemed to be carved in silver, for the
sunlight flashed and twinkled on the
sheath of ice which covered him from the
tip of his outstretched nose to the tip of
his outstretched tail. And if the ice had
been enduring silver, the perfection, the
certainty of his pose, could have served
as a model for all the champions yet to
come.

259

Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

They watched him for awed moments
in a vast silence. And then the silence
was broken. From a white mound at
which he pointed there came a sound, a
scratching flutter.

The white mound, once a refuge, was
now an icy prison. Its occupant was
pecking and fluttering to be free. There
was a grouse in the brush heap!

"Good God!" exclaimed Gregory, and
then, "Let him out, Tom; kick the snow
away!"

But the mistress of Brookfield put her
hand on his arm. "No, no!" she said.
"No, no! He's held it for you all this
dreadful night in this horrible land
where he doesn't belong . . . my mannie,
my own little rnannie!"

"I see," said Gregory. "Good girl!"
He waded to the white mound, kicked the
snow away and swung his foot against
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the pile of brush, the ice tinkling in the
dead branches.

The brush heap shivered. There was a
drumming of wings, a shower of snow,
and a big cock grouse shot for the blue
above the pines. There was a staccato
crash, a pungent breath of nitro powder,
and still he went, like a bronze rocket,
straight for that bit of sky.

The master of Brookfield winked the
dimness from his eyes and set his jaw.
The grouse topped the pines in a flashing
curve. He was gone ! No, not quite. He
had spread his wings for his sail over the
tree tops when he crumpled suddenly in
the air.

The master of Brookfield broke open
his smoking gun and looked at the small
white statue, banked in snow.

"Dead bird!" he said "Dead bird, old
snoozer!"

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Dumb -Bell of Brookfield

But Champion Brookfield Dumb-Bell
gave no sign that he heard. He could no
longer stoop to a ruffed grouse lying in
the snow. His spirit was sweeping like
the wind over Elysian Fields and flashing
into point after point on celestial quaiL

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