THE CUSTODY OF THE DOG.

Otago Witness, Issue 3994, 30 September 1930, Page 77

THE CUSTODY OF THE DOG.

By

Chart Pitt.

When Wellington, the collie dog, limped up to the kitchen door and found a red-haired woman in charge of his master’s house, he knew something had happened.

“ Don’t come sneaking around here, you gluttonous <hound,” the woman stormed as she brandished a broom in the dog’s face. “ The Old Man is dead, and it’ll be a dark day before you find anybody else foolish enough to spend their money buying meat for a dog — money that ought to have been saved for the heirs.”

The collie recoiled in horror. The loudmouthed female didn’t need to tell him that the master had gone upon that long journey of -which he sometimes used to speak as they sat together in the firelight. There was the smell of death in the air. The wind, that rustled among the frost-yellowed leaves of the hickory trees had dropped into a morbid lament, such a lament as only a dog could understand. Wellington lifted his nose to the blue Wisconsin skies, and voiced his grief in a shivering wail, after the fashion of his kind. But the wielder of the broom was upon.him. Anger and fear had turned her into a raging fury. The dog darted out of the gate and turned into the road that followed the twisting course of the river—the dreamy muddy Wolf that his master had loved so well. Fear was too heavy upon him. to admit of delay, but he turned his head for a backward glance as he ran. It was hard to part from the grey old building that had been hi 3 home since he could remember, but he had no hope of making anybody understand. There never had been but one man who understood dogs, and that man was dead, and Wellington, the collie, was denied the right to watch beside his body, a thing that had been the undisputed privilege of his kind since that morning in the early dawn of time when the first man and the first dog went out to share the perils of life together. The Ted-haired woman was standing in the doorway, still clutching her broom like a club. Both hate and greed were plainly written upon her flaming, freckleblotched face. Wellington had seen this creature upon several former occasions. Always she had come with a tale of woe to weep into his master’s ear, and always she had gone away with money clutched in her grasping fist. It was Avaline Plunket, the dead man’s daughter, a sister to the fleas that hopped about in the sand beneath the old house —hungry bloodsuckers all of them. The dog’s bitter reflections ended in a shock of collision, and a string of horrible snarling oaths that gushed from the lips of a heavy-set man who was hurrying toward the house of death. The collie leapt the hazelnut bushes that lined the river bank and escaped. He had seen the fellow before— and knew what the toe of his No. 10 boots felt like.. It was Amos Bland, a brother of the red-headed broom-wielder. Like hers, his visits to the old house had been in quest of money. Wellington circled back into th e road and trotted down into the straggling town of Fremont. The dog realised tha° he was homeless. There could '■ ‘

such thing as going back to the old house, where the red-headed Avalinc iiao taken charge. I* remont had been a town where people lived easily, and found dying about the only exciting thing that crept into their lives. It was a settlement of old-timers and their children who had thrived upon a diet of petty gossip, with the spice of languid hate thrown in for a seasoning. But the coming of the button factorv had changed all this.

The nondescript boats of the pearling fleet jostled and crowded each other as they swung to the snubbing lines in the gurgling current of the muddy river—the river where the lowly clam crept, sometimes with a fortune “hiding within its unlovely shell. Old, broken-down river runners dozed in the noonday sun, dreaming of the millions they would make on the morrow. Young men spent their hard-earned dollars with what they thought to be reckless abandon. Wellington knew it was useless to look for a friend in Fremont, where people who had dozed in the quiet content of stagnation suddenly had been touched with a man-sized, primitive passion.

Never once did the dog look about him as he trotted through the town. . His eyes were focussed upon the farms that dotted the lower valley of the Wolf. Out there the blue hills rolled away till they were lost in the soft, hazy skies of Wisconsin. There the corn was in the shack, and the rural folk were getting ready for the long, bleak days to come. Somewhere in that land of flocks and .herds there should be a place for a dog like him. . .' = . , “ There’s the Old Man’s dog now. He used to bring him down here every day for his beefsteak—and no cheap cut either.”

Wellington glanced over his shoulder. Butcher Smith was standing in the door of his shop, talking to a young man. The stranger turned his head at the words. As he did so, a spirit of abysmal loneliness welled up in the heart of the outcast dog. It found its voice in a sobbing, throaty howl that went ihg away into the unfriendly world. .... For the face of the stranger was something that had no business there in Fremont or anywhere else for that matter.

It was the face of a man who had died long ago. The master had told him so. It was the face that had hung in the walnut frame above the fireplace in the old home from which he had been driven. Wellington knew all about that hoy who had gone away because of a misunderstanding with his father, ami had been too proud to return. I’m the stranger--.was not a day older nit Im man in the picture, and \ ’ i knew that men as well as c gr. ./ old with the years. “I wonder where he’s goi qi ” .he stranger said. “Suppose he knows someth? has happened to grandfather ? ” “I’ll bet you the best steak I got in the shop that he’s discovered Vonr Aunt Ava,” the butcher grinned. “She’s gone up and taken charge of things. I don’t figure on getting rich off the meat she buys for Wellington.” The dog stretched out in the dusty street. His eyes still looked down the valley, where the farms were beginning to grow vague and shadowy under the gathering twilight. Something told him that he never would follow the white ribbon of the road, unless it was at the heels of this soft-voiced man who had called the dead master “ grandfather.” “ Give him his usual piece of meat,” the stranger said to Smith. “ I never did own a dog—until now. Didn’t feel I could afford to.” The collie turned his head away as he heard the footsteps approaching. “ Here’s your supper, Wellington,” the friendly voice said, close to the dog’s ear. He turned and saw the stranger bending over him, a piece of juicy steak in his fingers. But it was something more than meat the dog craved. He glanced into the man’s face—and saw the soul of the dead master shining out of the serious eyes.' Slowly the collie lifted his nose to the darkening skies, and sounded his sobbing ■ call of grief. “Don’t feel so bad, old boy,” the stranger soothed. “We can’t bring your master back, but you’re not going hungry. I can’t feed you T-bone steaks like grandfather did, but we’ll go fiftyfifty in the grub question.” “ That dog will be just the thing you’ll need, doctor, if you locate in Fremont. You can leave him to watch your car while you’re looking after your patients,” the butcher suggested. “ There won’t be any car,” the stranger smiled sadly. “ I’ll have to •walk.”

Wellington followed his new friend to the hotel that stood at the foot of the bridge. He watched him enter the building, then trotted off to the stable, to find a bed in the hay. The chattering of jays awoke him the next morning. The sun was rising above the distant meadows. All memory of his bereavement had been blotted out in the blackness of sleep. For a moment he pricked up his ears, hoping to hear the voice of his master. Then he remembered that the silver-haired man would never speak to him again. The master had gone upon the long journey, but no life except his would be left empty because of his going. . ~ Only the young stranger seemed to understand what death meant to a dog —the tragic sorrow of the dumb, that must be borne in silence. He went into the street and waited for the coming of his friend—the one man in Fremont who hadn’t gone mad under the whip of the pearl hunt. He hadn’t long to wait. The doctor came down the steps, carrying a paper bag in his hand.

“ I told you it would be fifty-fifty,* he chuckled, as he spread a strange assortment of food before the collie. “I ordered steak instead of eggs, because I thought dogs might not like such things.” Wellington ate his breakfast, and together they started up the road, headed for the old house where a redhaired woman maintained her authority by the weight of a heavy broom. Mrs Plunket was waiting for them at the door. She greeted the doctor with a frozen smile.

“ Paul Bland, you’re a perfect picture of your dad when he was your age,” she commented critically. “ I don’t see why the Old Man was so set on having you come to the funeral—after all he suffered because of your father,” she sniffed.

Then her suspicious eyes caught sight of Wellington. “ Chase that dirty dog away,” she ordered loftily. The worthless brute has eaten up half of my inheritance already.” “He’s going in to see grandfather.” The doctor spoke softly, and without a trace of emotion; but there was something in the even voice that thrilled the dog—something that sounded like the passionless ring of steel, hard tempered under the hammer of misfortune.

The red-haired woman went sniffing away in high-headed contempt. “ Perhaps the Old Man left you the hound-dog in his will,” she spit out the words with spiteful bitterness. “ I understand he left money for you to come to the funeral.”

“ I guess grandfather had been keeping an eye on me, Aunt Ava, and knew I couldn’t come without his help. I’ve just got out of college—and owe for my last year’s tuition.” It was in the trembling arms of the doctor that the collie looked down into the cold, peaceful face of the dead master. Then silently they left the room. v Wellington waited in the yard for the doctor. When he came out q_f the house he carried a chain in his hand*

It. was snapped into the collar that circled the animal’s neck, and he was fastened to one of the trees. Then the young man returned to the silent building.

Soon the people began to drift up from the town in automobiles, buggies, and on foot. They filled the house, and overflowed into the yard. The sound of low, mournful singing came to him from within.

The sky had gone gray, and the wind held a touch of frost. It was a reminder that winter was creeping down across the northern forests—a reminder that a kind old man had gone out upon the long journey of death.

Soon the door of ..the • farmhouse opened, and the crowd filed into the yard, two by two, their heads bared to the drift of the sharp-edged breeze. Wellington saw them carry the master past, in his sombre, plushcovered casket, and go winding up the road that led to the cemetery, where the marble monuments fringed the skyline like a row of snarling teeth. The collie felt the sting of his imprisonment. He had followed the master through sunshine and rain. Now they were leaving him behind. ■ In his bed among the fallen leaves he watched the far procession; watched until it came back down the hill; and the doctor hurried over and released him. The hand upon the chain trembled. Wellington looked up into the face that had grown old and grey, like the rest of the world. The collie followed his new friend into the house. A handful of people from the village were scattered about the room. The red-headed Avaline and her surly brother were seated together at one side of the table. Across from them stood 'Lawyer Barber, with a paper in his hand.

‘ ‘lt was Mr Bland’s instructions that the will be opened and read in the presence of certain people. In deference to the dead man’s wish, you have remained for that purpose.” Aunt Ava moved nervously in her seat as the lawyer unfolded the paper and hurriedly began to skim through the legal forms that preceded the specified bequests. “ To Paul Bland I leave the old, abandoned home on the river road —the place wher e his father was born.”

Uncle Amos turned a smiling face toward the corner where the doctor stood; a white-throated collie dog stretched out at his feet.

Aunt Ava sniffed as though something was offensive to her delicate nostrils. Her chin was lifted high in hopeful toleration of the slow reading lawyer. “My farm I leave to my son, Amos Bland, on condition that the stock and equipment be maintained at'its present state of efficiency.” Uncle Amos settled down in his seat, his old, confidential bearing returned. “ To my daughter, Avaline,” the lawyer continued with provoking deliberation. “ I leave my town property, consisting of four houses and lots on Back street, and one stone business block situated at the foot of the bridge, known as the Bland Block; on condition that they, too, be kept in repair.”

Mr Barber took of his glasses and began polishing them with a piece of buckskin. The red-headed woman seized upon the opportunity. “ I’ve been planning on having the Bland Block remodelled into a dwelling, everything modern and up to date. It’s the best location in town. A person can’t come across the bridge or go up From, street without being in plain sight from the windows. I’ll make it the show place of the Wolf. I ought to be able to gel it fitted up in time to Christmas party—and I’ll invite all you people,” she added as she shot a smirking glance at the assembled witnesses.

Uncle Amos cleared his throat with noisy effort.

“ I’m going to turn the old farm into a racing stable,” he confided. “ It’s something this county has needed for a long time. I’ll fix up ball-rounds and organise a team. If I don’t put Fremont on the sport map mv name ain’t Amos Bland.”

“ But the money—and the mortgages—who gets them ? ” the red-headed woman became suddenly suspicious. “ I’ll need a lot of money 'to remodel the Bland Block.”

“ And I’ll need my half to get the stables going,” the <brother flared in open warfare.

The lawyer was standing with the paper in his hand. Plainly he was waiting for the storm to blow ov.er before attempting to finish the reading of the will. The room grew silent. Suppressed breathing sounded loud and unreal in the strained hush. “ To each of the Above mentioned heirs is given the right to use and enjoy the property severally allotted to them for the period of one year, at-which time the entire estate will be disposed of according to instructions contained in the sealed codicil herewith attached.”

“ But the money ? ” The woman lifted her voice to unladylike proportions. “And what are the conditions?” Her question was echoed by the wheezing, nasal tones of the man who had an ambition to put Fremont on the sport map.

“Mr Bland thought it best that the conditions should remain unknown for the present. The moneys and securities are left in my care subject to the last reading of the will,” the lawyer smiled softly as he folded the paper.

Wellington trotted out of the room. The sound of voices rose in a sullen undertone behind him, voices that at

times were drowned by the thin, whining complaint of Aunt Ava. Up the hill road he trotted. The wrangling over the inheritance meant nothing to him. It was the dead man he wanted—not the raiment he had left behind him.

.The scent-trail of the funeral party still clung to the dusty road, and over the grassy sward to where a fresh mound of red clay lay bleak and lone beneath the grey sky.

There on the trampled ground Wellington stretched out in silent communion with the dead master, as was his ancient right.

The hours slipped by uncounted. A listless, murky twilight settled over the lonely hill, and with it came the doctor. Gently he lifted the dog’s head, and led him away—into a new life, that in some strange way seemed to “Wellington to be but the continuation of the old.

A year slipped by. The boats of the pearling fleet still jostled one another in the muddy water of the Wolf. A few more of the old-time log-running rivermen had been carried up to the hill where the marble monuments fringed the skyline like a row of snarling teeth; and a few more clam-diggers had drifted into town and taken their places. Fremont had not been placed upon the sport map. Neither had the Bland Block been remodelled into a residential castle from whose windows Avaline Plunket could sweep the length of the street with her prying eyes. Yet it had been a wonderful year for Wellington, the white-throated collie dog. There had been no porterhouse steaks for his breakfast; but he had eaten his share of a doctor’s lean rations, and never lost faith in the man he had chosen as a friend.

Death had not dimmed his memory of the master who had gone; neither could hunger lessen his love for Paul Bland. Faith and poverty were the twin fibres of liis soul—a blood trait that ran back to the lean, hard hills of Scotland.

He had trotted at the doctor's heels through winter snows and summer dust, as that serious young man walked the roads to minister to the sick and afflicted, sometimes a rich farmer from the valley, but more often a brokendown clamdigger in his shanty-boat upriver.

Now the ducks were once more flying southward, clamouring their fear of the winter that was following fast upon their trail. Ever since daylight the boom of shot-guns had been drifting up from the sloughs and marshes of the Wolf. It had been a good season on the clam-beds, and Fremont was- lounging in the lap of a lazy content. Doctor Bland was the one exception. Prosperity had passed him by. His face looked more thin and drawn than usual as he came out of the little stormracked building on the river road, and reached a hand down in greeting to the dog. *■ We’ve done the best we could, old boy,” he whispered to the collie, “ but there’s one too many doctors in this town already. Somebody has got to move out—and I guess that’s us. We’re almost cleaned out, Wellington, but we’ll get a piece of meat for our breakfast—the last one we’ll ever eat in Fremont,” he added. At the turn of the road they met Lawyer Barber, the legal handv man of the Wolf.

“ I was looking over my books this morning, and find the tax hasn’t been paid on that dog. I’ll have to order the marshal to shoot him to-morrow unless you come across with a dollar. That’s the know.” “ Wait a minute.” The doctor began emptying his pockets, counting the small coins they contained. “ Here, take it all —a nickel won’t buy anything in Fremont,” he mumbled as he poured the chicken feed into the lawyer’s hand, and received his tax receipt. Then the man and dog returned to the old house on the river road—returned to a breakfast of cold potatoes. “ We might as well go up and watch Aunt Ava and Uncle Amos fight over their inheritance,” he suggested to the collie, as he shaved back the table. Time was nothing to the two unfortunates, and they squandered it lavishly upon that trip to the Bland Farm. They found the people waiting for them. Lawyer Barher unfolded a paper as he rose from his seat.

“ We’ve waited a year to read this part of the will, as Mr Bland wished,” he began, only to be crowded out by the petulant voice of Aunt Ava. “Yes, and it’s been a wasted year, if you want to know what I think about ity fussing around with that kudicle, or whatever it is you call it. I never did have any time to waste on foreign words. Here I been setting around, waiting to fix over the Bland Block, and leather furniture getting higher every day. I reckon it’ll cost me a thousand dollars extra to furnish the place. There’s been a murder in town and two fires since then, and me sitting up there on Back street, and never knew a thing about them till everything was over. But I’ll make up for it now. I’m going to start a newspaper in the back end of the block. Mr Plunket has been to Oshkosh learning to print, and I’ll look after the reporting and editing of it. A newspaper is the one thing Fremont lias needed this long time. You just want' to keep an eye on the editorials of the Plunket Weekly. There’s them in this town that’s going to feel the power of the press. “You might boost my racing stables,” Uncle Amos ventured gingerly, as though he was not fully decided to make use of his sister, or fight her.

lin going to run for sheriff next spring,’ he continued. “We might be able to help one another. I could put Jou on to a lot of official news—most everybody conies to court with their troub.es—especially family rows.” Then Lawyer Barber rustled the paper ' lolently to attract their attention, and began to read.

I, James Bland, being of sound mind, do hereby give and bequeath all my property, personal and real, to the party or parties unknown to me, who shall have provided a home for my dog Wellington.”

I hat means me, I guess,” Aunt Ava lied blithely. “ I always fed him whenever he was at home. Of course, the old fellow missed his master, and was wandering around looking for him. All Jou people know that I took good care of him—don’t you ? ” “ Ava. Plunket, you never gave a dog a bone in your life,” Uncle Amos snarled at his sister. “ Wellington went with the farm—he was out here at the farm right along.” ‘‘ I think the dead man has made provision for settling this thing peacefully.” The lawyer once more rustled the paper, preparing to read. “In case of dispute and contending claims, the party who shall have paid the current dog-tax upon the animal shall be considered as having complied with the provisions of this bequest.” “ That makes it all right for me,” Amos chuckled. “ You made out the license to me, didn’t you ? You know we was talking about it just this morning.”

“Me, too! ” Aunt Ava thrust her thin, freckled face between the two men. “ I didn’t have the money with me, but I went home for it, and I met Mrs Pots, and she was a-telling how the minister was carrying on something scandalous with his housekeeper—and then I forgot all about the dog license.” \ The lawyer folded up the paper, and placed it in Paul Bland’s hand. “ I’m sorry, Mrs Plunket; but you and your brother both had your chance—and didn’t use it.

“ Do you know what your nephew did when I told him about the tax? He turned his pockets wrong side out, hunting for enough money to satisfy the law —and he found it, too—one dollar and five cents—and he told me to keep the change.”—Weekly Scotsman.