The Dogs of Boytown
Then he told, in his own peculiar fashion, how he started with the puppies, teaching them to retrieve objects such as sticks and balls, and later dead birds that they must learn to carry gently without using their teeth.
"Never let 'em think it's just a romp they're havin'," he continued. "I like to play with puppies as well as anyone, but when I'm breakin' 'em I let 'em understand that it's business. Never let 'em have their own way if they want to do the wrong thing, and never give 'em an order without seein' that it's carried out if it takes all day. That's where the patience comes in. Teach 'em to obey, and you can do most anything with 'em."
"Do you whip them if they don't obey?" asked Ernest.
"Never whipped a dog in my life," said Sam, decidedly, "except a fox terrier I had once. They're different. A whipped setter is a spoiled setter, and if you can't make 'em do what you want 'em to without whippin' 'em or bribin' 'em, you'd better get out of the business. Of course, I sometimes give a puppy a piece of cookie or something to show him he's done what he ought to, but I never use the whip. There's other kinds of punishment that work better and don't break their spirits. Just keep 'em from havin' what they want, and tease 'em into wantin' it awful bad, and you can make 'em do most anything."
He then went on to explain his method of teaching a young dog to hold his point in the field. He used a long rope tied to a stout collar, and led the dog to a thicket where a dead bird lay. When the dog got the scent and started to dash in, a sharp jerk on the rope restrained him, and in time he was thus taught to stand rigid when the scent came strong to his nostrils.
"That's one way to teach a dog not to chase chickens, too," he added. "But a puppy born of trained parents gets the pointin' habit almost by instinct, and retrievin', too. The main thing is to make him understand that he's got to do the trick and not something else that happens to pop into his head. After that, you can teach 'em to answer your whistle or a wave of your hand and hunt just where you want 'em to."
"Aren't they afraid of a gun at first?" asked Jack, who had never learned not to jump when a gun went off.
"Some of 'em are," said Sam. "If a dog is gun-shy he's got to be broken of that before he's any good in the field. Some folks say you can never break a dog that's really gun-shy, but I never seen one yet that I couldn't cure."
"How do you do it?" asked Ernest.
"Well, one way is to give the dog something he wants every time you shoot off a gun. You can shoot over his dinner, and not let him have any till he comes up to where you and the gun are. Keep at it, and after awhile he begins to connect the sound of the gun with things that he likes. Always take a gun when you go out for a walk with him, and after awhile he will bark and act happy every time you take it from the rack. The whole idea of breakin' a bird dog is to make him think that the thing you want him to do is the thing he wants to do, and never let that idea get away from him."
The boys continued to ply him with questions, for this was a subject that they had never heard about before, and Sam willingly added more details of the process of training. At length he took a big dollar watch from his pocket and consulted it.
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know it was gettin' so late. I'll have to be hurryin' along. Say," he added, a little wistfully, "come up to my house and see me sometime, won't you? I ain't got anything very elegant up there, but I could show you something in the line o' dogs and guns that might interest you."
"Oh, we'd love to, if our folks'll let us," said Ernest. "Where do you live?"
Sam gave them careful directions.
"First and third Tuesdays used to be my days for callers, but nobody came," said he, as he started up the road with Nan. "So now any old day will do – if I'm home."
"How about next Saturday?" asked Ernest.
"Saturday it is," said Sam Bumpus, and with a wave of his hand he vanished around a bend in the road.
Clothes do not make the man, and boys are apt to overlook certain superficial peculiarities and defects which seem more significant to their elders. In Sam Bumpus they saw only a man of good humor and wonderful wisdom, a man whose manner of life was vastly more interesting than that of the common run of people, whose knowledge of the lore of woods and fields, of dogs and hunting, entitled him to a high place in their estimation. They overlooked the externals, the evidences of poverty and shiftlessness, his lack of education, and saw only his native wit and shrewdness, his kinship with the world of nature, and his goodness of heart. They considered it a piece of rare good fortune to have made the acquaintance of so wise and sympathetic a person and they felt indebted to him for permission to visit him, to hear him talk, and to glean from him something of the knowledge that had come to him through experience.
To Sam Bumpus, however, the obligation seemed to be on the other side. The boys did not know it, but Sam Bumpus was a lonely man and craved human companionship. He lived like a hermit in his little shack in the woods and his peculiarities had set him somewhat apart from the world of men. He had no living relatives, and apart from the old lady in the woods road, the inmates of the Poor Farm, and a few other out-of-the-way people with whom he had been able to win his way through his natural generosity and kindness, he had practically no friends but his dogs. He understood dogs better than he understood men, and, to tell the truth, he esteemed them more highly; yet he sometimes hungered for human comradeship. That two frank-hearted, unspoiled boys should seek him out and seem to desire his company gave him a feeling of unaccustomed satisfaction, and he looked forward to their promised visit fully as eagerly as did the boys themselves.
This proposed visit was such an unusual affair that Ernest Whipple considered it advisable to speak to his father about it. Mr. Whipple was reading his paper and made but little comment, but Mrs. Whipple, who was in the room at the time, raised objections.
"Don't you think it might be unsafe for the boys to go away off there alone?" she asked anxiously. "We don't know anything about this man. He may have a bad influence on them, even if nothing more serious happens to them. He's a very uncouth person, I should say, and hardly a fit companion for little boys."
"Oh, I don't think he'll hurt them," said Mr. Whipple from behind his paper.
But the mother wasn't satisfied, and after the boys had gone to bed she again brought the matter up.
"Well, mother," said Mr. Whipple, "he probably isn't the sort of guide, philosopher, and friend that we would have picked out for the boys, but parents can't always do the picking. They are getting older all the time, and sooner or later they must be thrown on their own resources. Self-reliance doesn't come from constant protection and hemming in. We can't keep them from striking up acquaintances, and before we raise objections we should be sure that they're well grounded; then we shall be able to make our objections count for more."
"But I should think there was good ground for objection in this case," she persisted. "This man seems to be so crude and rough, if nothing worse."
"Oh, he's all right," responded the father. "Don't think I'm careless about these things. I've made some inquiries, and though I find that Bumpus is unconventional and queer, as they say, and improvident and uneducated, he's honest and law-abiding. So far as I can find out, the worst thing he ever does is to give tobacco to the inmates of the Poor Farm. I know people right here on Washburn Street that would do the boys more harm. Just because he doesn't live like folks on Washburn Street doesn't make him bad."
"Well," said Mrs. Whipple, doubtfully, "I suppose you know best, but for my part I would much prefer to keep them safe home with me, for some years to come."
"That's because you've never been a boy," said Mr. Whipple, with a smile in his eyes. "I have, and it doesn't seem so very long ago, either."
Mrs. Whipple was not satisfied, but she did not forbid the proposed visit. The next Saturday, therefore, found them early on their way, filled with joyful anticipations.
Sam's shack, when at last they arrived, proved to be a forlorn affair, built of boards of different widths, some red, some white, and some unpainted. The sagging roof was of corrugated iron and the only chimney was built of cement pipe guyed up with wires. But to the eyes of the boys it was a most attractive abode. Never before had they seen such an interesting house. There must be an element of sport in living in a cabin like this, they thought.
Sam heard their footsteps and met them smilingly at the door. He ushered them at once inside, where he had a wood fire roaring in his stove, for the day was chilly, and he promptly set before them glasses of milk and hot corn bread. Though they had breakfasted only two hours before, they fell to with gusto, for that is the way of boys.
"How do you like my corn bread?" asked Sam.
"M-m!" murmured Jack, taking a fresh bite.
"Do you bake it yourself?" inquired Ernest.
"Sure," said Sam.
"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest, looking up at him with admiration.
After they had fully refreshed themselves, Sam took them out through a back door, from which they could see a number of small structures that looked as though they had been made out of dry-goods boxes. The sound of excited barking smote their ears, a chorus of canine cries and yelps. Old Nan came bounding forward to greet the boys, for she knew them now, and behind her loped a big pointer.
"This is Hillcroft Dick," said Sam, by way of introduction. "He's a famous dog, a champion on the bench and at the trials. He ain't my dog, though. I'm just boardin' him for a man that's gone to California. I wish I owned him, though. He's a great dog."
The boys didn't understand the reference to bench shows and field trials, but they gathered that Dick was some sort of nobleman among dogs and they were visibly impressed.
"Now we'll go out to the kennels," said Sam.
There were seven dogs, all told, besides Nan and Dick. There were two cocker spaniels, in the first place, that Sam said he was training for a man in Oakdale.
"I like a bigger dog, myself," said he, "but there's a lot of good dog wrapped up in these small bundles. They're smart as whips, and though I've got to make 'em forget their foolin' and parlor tricks, I'll soon have 'em able to find and retrieve. Sometimes you can even teach a spaniel to point."
The other five were all Sam's dogs, another pointer, a little smaller than Dick, and four beautiful English setters.
"They've got the best blood in the land," said Sam, proudly, "and every one of 'em is letter perfect on his job. This is Rex and this is Robbin and this is Rockaway."
The boys patted and spoke to each in turn, hugely enjoying this introduction to Sam's family.
"And this one over here is the best of all," he continued. "That's Nellie, own sister to Nan, and what she don't know wouldn't hurt a flea. But I guess I'd better keep you away from her to-day. She ain't feelin' very well."
After they had fondled and played with the dogs to their hearts' content, the boys followed Sam again into the house, where they spent the rest of the morning smoothing Nan's silky hair and listening to wonderful stories about the sagacity of Nellie and the other dogs.
So pleasantly was the time employed that it was eleven o'clock by Sam's big watch before they thought it possible, and as they had promised to be home in time for dinner, they were obliged, reluctantly, to take their departure.
As they turned the bend in the road they looked back and saw Sam standing in his low doorway with Nan sitting picturesquely beside him.
"Come again soon," called Sam.
"We will," the boys shouted in reply.
CHAPTER III
ROMULUS AND REMUS
They did call again, once on the Saturday before Thanksgiving Day and again in December, when the woods and fields were white with snow and they wore their warm sweaters and arctics. On each occasion they became better acquainted with Sam's dogs and learned something new about training dogs and finding game, and Sam showed them the mechanism of his shotguns and rifles. He also explained to them his method of curing the pelts of muskrats and the beautiful silver-gray fur of the little moles that the people in charge of the Poor Farm were very glad to have him trap in their garden. And as the boys came to know Sam's dogs better they began to see how each differed from the others in character and disposition and in the way they understood and did things.
"Just like people," said Sam; "just like people."
Even Mrs. Whipple was unable to discover that the boys' manners had been damaged greatly by their association with Sam Bumpus, though she was surprised at their continuous talk about dogs and the strange jargon, as it seemed to her, which they used in that connection. She was no less surprised to find that her husband appeared to understand the meaning of "bird sense" and "freezing to a point" and "retrieving" and "blood lines" and "cross-breeding" and to be able to discuss these mysterious matters with the boys.
"But what is the good of their filling their heads with all that stuff?" she asked him.
"My dear," replied Mr. Whipple, "you may not believe it, but it is just as much good as arithmetic and geography, and you're always worrying because they don't take more interest in those things. There are more ways than one to get an education."
But Mrs. Whipple only shook her head perplexedly.
It was on the day before Christmas that the great event occurred that I have been leading up to. Ernest and Jack Whipple had returned from an hour's coasting on the long hill over by the brickyard and were standing on their sleds beside the front gate bemoaning the fact that the snow had melted so badly and speculating on the surprises which the morrow might have in store for them. It was vacation, and they were considering how best to spend the long hours that would intervene between dinner and time for lighting up the Christmas tree, when Ernest stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence and stood looking up the street.
"Jack!" he exclaimed. "Look who's coming!"
Jack turned and beheld the familiar, lanky figure and long, easy stride of Sam Bumpus. Both boys set up a yell and started on a run up the street.
"Merry Christmas, Sam!" they cried. "Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, men," replied Sam, grinning.
One on each side of him, they escorted Sam down the street.
"Have you come to see us?" inquired Ernest.
"Why, no," said Sam. "I came to see the President of the United States, but I found he wasn't in town, so I thought I'd drop in on you. You haven't seen anything of him around here, have you?"
The boys laughed delightedly; they had come to understand Sam's kind of joking.
"Well, you must come into our shack," said Ernest. "We'll introduce you to mother, and father will be home soon."
"Well, I don't know as I'll exactly go in," replied Sam, doubtfully. "Maybe your mother ain't asked to be interduced to me. Anyway, I can talk better outside."
"Where's Nan?" asked Jack.
"I left her home, doin' up the dishes in the kitchen," said Sam. "The city don't agree with Nan. It don't agree with me much, either. I won't stop but a minute."
"Aw, come on in," pleaded Ernest.
But Sam shook his head. "No," said he, "I just want to show you something, and then I must be goin'. Can't we go over to the barn?"
"Sure," said the boys, and led the way to the stable in the yard that was now used only as a tool house and garage.
"We'll show you our carpenter shop," said Ernest.
But Sam did not stop long to examine the carpenter shop. There was something very mysterious about his attitude which aroused the boys' curiosity to top pitch.
"Come over here," said Sam, stepping toward an unused stall.
He began fumbling in his capacious pockets, and the boys crowded close about him, expecting to see some unusual sort of game he had shot. Suddenly before their astonished eyes there appeared two fuzzy, dappled puppies, running and sniffing about the floor of the stall.
"Puppies!" cried the boys in unison.
"Yep," said Sam. "English setter puppies."
"Where did you get them?" demanded Jack, catching up one of the sprawling little dogs in his arms.
"Nellie gave them to me," said Sam.
A look of comprehension began to dawn in Ernest's eyes. "So that's why you wouldn't let us go near her kennel last time we were there," said he. "She had them all the time."
Sam grinned. "They're pretty young to take away from their mother," said he, "but she has three more. She's a good mother, Nellie is. You ought to see her chase the other dogs away. I had a job of it gettin' these two weaned before Christmas."
"Why did you have to get them weaned before Christmas?" asked Jack.
"Now you jest think that over, and see if you can tell me," said Sam.
Ernest had already half guessed the wonderful truth, but he didn't yet dare to say what he thought.
"Don't be afraid of 'em," said Sam. "They won't bite – or leastways, not serious. Besides, they're your own dogs."
"Our own dogs?" gasped Jack in astonishment, the glad light beginning to break in upon him.
"Sure," said Sam. "What else would they be here for? I thought Santa Claus might happen to forget you, and so I brought 'em down."
"Oh!" cried Ernest. "Christmas presents! To be our very own dogs! I guess none of the other boys will have such fine presents as these, Jack."
But Jack was speechless with joy.
"Have they got names?" asked Ernest.
"Sure," said Sam. "I told you how I name all my dogs with names beginning with the same letter. All my own puppies, I mean. It's for good luck. There's Rex, you know, and Robbin and Rockaway. These two are Romulus and Remus and they're twins. This one with the black ear is Romulus, and this one with the little map of Africa on his side is Remus. That's how you can tell 'em apart."
"Which is mine and which is Ernest's?" inquired Jack, at last finding his voice.
"Well, now, I hadn't thought of that," confessed Sam. "Suppose you draw lots for 'em. Here, I'll hold these two broom straws so you can't tell which is longest. You each draw one, and the one that gets the longest straw can have first choice of the puppies. Is that fair?"
The boys agreed to the plan and drew the straws. Ernest's proved to be the longer one.
"Well, he's older, anyway," said Jack. "Which one do you choose, Ernest?"
"I'll take Romulus," said Ernest promptly, having noted that the one with the black ear was a shade the larger of the two.
"All right," said Jack, "and Remus is mine." And he asserted stoutly that he would have chosen Remus anyway.
"That's good," said Sam. "Then you're both satisfied. Grown people would have made more fuss about it, I'll warrant you.
"Well, I must be steppin' along," he continued. "Take good care of the puppies, because they're valuable. Remember that they're used to sleepin' close to a warm mother and see that they have a good bed. I'd put some rags in a box for 'em if I was you. Let 'em have fresh air and sunshine and a chance to stretch their legs, but don't let 'em get wet or chilled through and put their bed where they ain't no draughts. Remember they ain't got their warm coats yet.
"Give 'em a saucer of milk with the chill taken off, six times a day, and break a little bread into it at supper time. In a few weeks you can cut down to three meals a day, with more solid food, but I'll be down to see you before then, if you don't get up to see me, and I'll tell you just how to manage. Let me know if you have any trouble of any kind, but I guess you won't."
The clicking of the front gate announced the return of Mr. Whipple to his noonday meal. The boys ran to the stable door and shouted, "Father! Oh, father, come see what we've got for Christmas!"
They dashed toward him and dragged him by main force to the stable. But when they got there, Sam Bumpus had mysteriously disappeared, without giving the boys a chance to thank him or to wish him another Merry Christmas.
Mr. Whipple examined the puppies with interest and watched their clumsy antics with amusement. Like most people he could not resist the charm of a wet-nosed, big-footed, round-bellied, fuzzy little puppy. Presently, however, a look of doubt came over his face.
"What do you propose doing with them?" he asked.
"Why, having them for our dogs," said Jack, surprised that his father should ask so obvious a question.
"I mean, where do you plan to keep them?"
"Why, in our room, I guess," said Ernest.
But Mr. Whipple shook his head doubtfully. "I don't imagine they've been taught yet how to behave themselves in the house," said he. "And anyway, I don't believe your mother will want them there. She doesn't like dogs, you know."
"Aw, she wouldn't mind little bits of soft dogs like these," protested Ernest.
"Well, you can try it and see," said Mr. Whipple, "but I wouldn't get my hopes up too high, if I were you."
Mrs. Whipple did object quite decidedly, and for a time it looked as though Romulus and Remus were unwanted guests in that household and that their young masters would be forced to part with them. Tears were shed, but of that we will say little. At last Mrs. Whipple was persuaded to grant a truce in order that the Christmas Eve festivities might not be entirely spoiled. Besides, it was too late now to take the puppies back to Sam Bumpus, and even Mrs. Whipple was not hard-hearted enough to think of merely putting them out into the cold. The upshot of it was that, Delia having been given the evening off, Romulus and Remus were banished to the kitchen for the night, with a bed prepared in a box and another box of sand placed hopefully near by. The boys insisted on serving their supper in two separate saucers with the idea that each would recognize his own and observe the rights of the other.
Occasional stealthy visits to the kitchen that evening disclosed two remarkably wakeful and active puppies engaged in unexpected explorations, but at last they curled up together in their new bed, two innocent little balls of fluff, and Ernest and Jack bade them goodnight with much ceremony.
On Christmas Day there was trouble from the start. In fact, it was one of the liveliest Christmas Days in the history of the Whipple household. In the first place, when Delia came back early in the morning to get things started for the Christmas dinner, she discovered the two little strangers in her kitchen, and promptly made known the fact that they were puppies whose manners were not at all what they should be. Mr. Whipple averted a domestic storm by taking the puppies out into the yard, where he had his hands full to keep them out of the snow.
By this time the boys had finished the examination of their bulging stockings and the larger contributions of St. Nicholas which stood beside the fireplace, and bethought themselves of Romulus and Remus. They dashed pell-mell out into the yard where their father was pondering what he should do with them next. The boys promptly solved this problem by picking up the puppies, each taking his own, and carrying them forthwith into the house.
Mrs. Whipple was in a good humor that Christmas morning, and she really wanted her boys to be happy all day, so although she added one admonition to another, she allowed the boys to play with the puppies in the sitting-room. They would have to part with them soon enough, she thought, and meanwhile they might as well have as much fun as they could.
But as the day wore on her good nature and kind intentions were sorely tried. Romulus and Remus appeared to think that the house was some sort of hunting ground especially provided for little dogs, and that it was their duty to pursue, worry, and kill every sort of strange creature they could find. Evidently they were imaginative puppies, for they discovered enemies in overlooked corners of the room, on closet floors, and everywhere. These enemies might be the discarded paper wrappings of Christmas presents, or they might be perfectly good balls of darning cotton. It mattered not to Romulus and Remus so long as their primitive impulse to catch and slay was satisfied. They were very bloodthirsty little dogs.