Lad, A Dog/Chapter VII

Chapter VII. The Throwback The Place was nine miles north of the county-seat city of Paterson. And yearly, near Paterson, was held the great North Jersey Livestock Fair—a fair whose awards established for the next twelve-month the local rank of pure-bred cattle and sheep and pigs for thirty miles in either direction.

From the Ramapo hill pastures, south of Suffern, two days before the fair, descended a flock of twenty prize sheep—the playthings of a man to whom the title of Wall Street Farmer had a lure of its own—a lure that cost him something like $30,000 a year; and which made him a scourge to all his few friends.

Among these luckless friends chanced to be the Mistress and the Master of The Place. And the Gentleman Farmer had decided to break his sheep’s fairward journey by a twenty-four-hour stop at The Place.

The Master, duly apprised of the sorry honor planned for his home, set aside a disused horse-paddock for the woolly visitors’ use. Into this their shepherd drove his dusty and bleating charges on their arrival.

The shepherd was a somber Scot. Nature had begun the work of somberness in his Highland heart. The duty of working for the Wall Street Farmer had added tenfold to the natural tendency. His name was McGillicuddy, and he looked it.

Now, in northern New Jersey a live sheep is well nigh as rare as a pterodactyl. This flock of twenty had cost their owner their weight in merino wool. A dog—especially a collie—that does not know sheep, is prone to consider them his lawful prey, in other words, the sight of a sheep has turned many an otherwise law-abiding dog into a killer.

To avoid so black a smirch on The Place’s hospitality, the Master had loaded all his collies, except Lad, into the car, and had shipped them off, that morning, for a three-day sojourn at the boarding kennels, ten miles away.

“Does the Old Dog go, too, sir?” asked The Place’s foreman, with a questioning nod at Lad, after he had lifted the others into the tonneau.

Lad was viewing the procedings from the top of the veranda steps. The Master looked at him, then at the car, and answered:

“No. Lad has more right here than any measly imported sheep. He won’t bother them if I tell him not to. Let him stay.”

The sheep, convoyed by the misanthropic McGillicuddy, filed down the drive, from the highroad, an hour later, and were marshaled into the corral.

As the jostling procession, followed by its dour shepherd, turned in at the gate of The Place, Lad rose from his rug on the veranda. His nostrils itching with the unfamiliar odor, his soft eyes outraged by the bizarre sight, he set forth to drive the intruders out into the main road.

Head lowered, he ran, uttering no sound. This seemed to him an emergency which called for drastic measures rather than for monitory barking. For all he knew, these twenty fat, woolly, white things might be fighters who would attack him in a body, and who might even menace the safety of his gods; and the glum McGillicuddy did not impress him at all favorably. Hence the silent charge at the foe—a charge launched with the speed and terrible menace of a thunderbolt.

McGillicuddy sprang swiftly to the front of his flock, staff upwhirled; but before the staff could descend on the furry defender of The Place, a sweet voice called imperiously to the dog.

The Mistress had come out upon the veranda and, had seen Lad dash to the attack.

“Lad!” she cried. “Lad!”

The great dog halted midway in his rush.

“Down!” called the Mistress. “Leave them alone! Do you hear, Lad? Leave them alone! Come back here!”

Lad heard, and Lad obeyed. Lad always obeyed. If these twenty malodorous strangers and their staff-brandishing guide were friends of the Mistress he must not drive them away. The order “Leave them alone!” was one that could not be disregarded.

Trembling with anger, yet with no thought of rebelling, Lad turned and trotted back to the veranda. He thrust his cold nose into the Mistress’ warm little hand and looked up eagerly into her face, seeking a repeal of the command to keep away from the sheep and their driver.

But the Mistress only patted his silken head and whispered:

“We don’t like it any more than you do, Laddie; but we mustn’t let anyone know we don’t. Leave them alone!”

Past the veranda filed the twenty priceless sheep, and on to the paddock.

“I suppose they’ll carry off all the prizes at the fair, won’t they?” asked the Mistress civilly, as McGillicuddy plodded past her at the tail of the procession.

“Aiblins, aye,” grunted McGillicuddy, with the exquisite courtesy of a member of his race and class who feels he is being patronized. “Aiblins, aye. Aiblins, na’. Aiblins—ugh-uh.”

Having thus safeguarded his statement against assault from any side at all, the Scot moved on. Lad strolled down toward the paddock to superintend the task of locking up the sheep. The Mistress did not detain him. She felt calmly certain her order of “Leave them alone!” had rendered the twenty visitors inviolate from him.

Lad walked slowly around the paddock, his gaze on the sheep. These were the first sheep he had ever seen. Yet his ancestors, for a thousand years or more, had herded and guarded flocks on the moors.

Atavism is mysteriously powerful in dogs, and it takes strange forms. A collie, too, has a queer strain of wolf in him—not only in body but in brain, and the wolf was the sheep’s official murderer, as far back as the days when a humpbacked Greek slave, named Æsop, used to beguile his sleepless nights with writing fables.

Round and round the paddock prowled Lad; his eyes alight with a myriad half-memories; his sensitive nostrils quivering at the scents that enveloped them.

McGillicuddy, from time to time, eyed the dog obliquely, and with a scowl. These sheep were not the pride of his heart. His conscientious heart possessed no pride—pride being one of the seven deadly sins, and the sheep not being his own; but the flock represented his livelihood—his comfortably overpaid job with the Wall Street Farmer. He was responsible for their welfare.

And McGillicuddy did not at all like the way this beautiful collie eyed the prize merinos, nor was the Scot satisfied with the strength of the corral. Its wire fencing was rusty and sagging from long disuse, its gate hung crookedly and had a crazy hasp.

A sheep is one of the least intelligent creatures on earth. Should the flock’s leader decide at any time during the night to press his heavy bulk against the gate or against some of the rustier wire strands, there would presently be a gap through which the entire twenty could amble forth. Once outside—

Again McGillicuddy glowered dourly at Lad. The collie returned the look with interest; a well-bred dog being as skilled in reading human faces as is any professional dead beat. Lad saw the dislike in McGillicuddy’s heavy-thatched eyes; cordially he yearned to prove his own distaste for the shepherd, but the Mistress’ command had immuned this sour stranger.

So Lad merely turned his back on the man, sat down, flattened his furry ears close against his head, thrust his pointed nose skyward, and sniffed. McGillicuddy was too much an animal man not to read the insult in the dog’s posture and action, and the shepherd’s fist tightened longingly round his staff.

Half an hour later the Wall Street Farmer himself arrived at The Place. He came in a runabout. On the seat beside him sat his pasty-faced, four-year-old son. At his feet was something which, at first glance, might have been either a quadruped or a rag bag.

The Mistress and the Master, with dutiful hypocrisy, came smilingly out on the veranda to welcome the guests. Lad, who had returned from the impromptu sheep-fold, stood beside them. At sight and scent of this new batch of visitors the collie doubtless felt what old-fashioned novelists used to describe as “mingled emotions.”

There was a child in the car. And though there had been few children in Lad’s life, yet he loved them, loved them as a big-hearted and big-bodied dog always loves the helpless. Wherefore, at sight of the child, Lad rejoiced.

But the animal crouching at the Wall Street Farmer’s feet was quite a different form of guest. Lad recognized the thing as a dog—yet no such dog as ever he had seen. An unwholesome-looking dog. Even as the little boy was an unwholesome-looking child.

“Well!” sonorously proclaimed the Wall Street Farmer as he scrambled out of the runabout and bore down upon his hosts, “here I am! The sheep got here all safe? Good! I knew they would. McGillicuddy’s a genius; nothing he can’t do with sheep. You remember Mortimer?” lifting the lanky youngster from the seat. “He teased so to come along, his mother said I’d better bring him. I knew you’d be glad. Shake hands with them, Morty, darling.”

“I wun’t!” snarled Morty darling, hanging back.

Then he caught sight of Lad. The collie came straight up to the child, grinning from ear to ear, and wrinkling his nose so delightedly that every white front tooth showed. Morty flung himself forward to greet the huge dog, but the Wall Street Farmer, with a shout of warning, caught the boy in his arms and bravely interposed his own fat body between Mortimer and Lad.

“What does the beast mean by snarling at my son?” fiercely demanded the Wall Street Farmer. “You people have no right to leave such a savage dog at large.”

“He’s not snarling,” the Mistress indignantly declared, “he’s smiling. That’s Lad’s way. Why, he’d let himself be cut up into squares sooner than hurt a child.”

Still doubtful, the Wall Street Farmer cautiously set down his son on the veranda. Morty flung himself bodily upon Lad; hauling and mauling the stately collie this way and that.

Had any grown person, save only the Mistress or the Master, attempted such treatment, the curving white eyeteeth would have buried themselves very promptly in the offender.

Indeed, the Master now gazed, with some nervousness, at the performance; but the Mistress was not worried as to her adored pet’s behavior; and the Mistress, as ever, was right.

For Lad endured the mauling—not patiently, but blissfully. He fairly writhed with delight at the painful tugging of hair and ears; and moistly he strove to kiss the wizened little face that was on a level with his own. Morty repaid this attention by slapping Lad across the mouth. Lad only wagged his plumy tail the more ecstatically and snuggled closer to the preposterous baby.

Meantime, the Wall Street Farmer, in clarion tones, was calling attention to the second of the two treasures he had brought along.

“Melisande!” he cried.

At the summons, the fuzzy monstrosity in the car ceased peering snappishly over the doortop at Lad, and condescended to turn toward its owner. It looked like something between an Old English sheep-dog and a dachshund; straw-colored fur enveloped the scrawny body; a miserable apology for a bushy tail hung limpy between crooked hind legs; evil little eyes peered forth from beneath a scare-crow stubble of head fringe; it was not a pretty dog, this canine the Wall Street Farmer had just addressed by the poetic title of “Melisande.”

“What in blazes is he?” asked the Master.

“She is a Prussian sheep-dog,” proudly replied the Wall Street Farmer. “She is the first of her breed ever imported to America. Cost me a clean $1100 to buy her from a Chicago man who brought her over. I’m going to exhibit her at the Garden Show next winter. What do you think of her, old man?”

“I’d hate to tell you,” said the Master, “but I’ll gladly tell you what I think of that Chicago man. He’s the original genius who sold all the land between New York and Jersey City for a thousand dollars an acre and issued the series of ten-dollar season admission tickets to Central Park.”

Being the Wall Street Farmer’s host the Master said this in the recesses of his own heart. Aloud, he blithered some complimentary lie and watched the visitor lift the scraggy nondescript out of the car.

The moment she was on the ground, Melisande made a wild dash at Lad. Snarling, she snapped ferociously at his throat. Lad merely turned his shaggy shoulder to meet the onslaught. And Melisande found herself gripping nothing but a mouthful of his soft hair. He made no move to resent the attack. And the Wall Street Farmer, shouting unobeyed mandates to his pet, dragged away the pugnacious Melisande by the scruff of the neck.

The $1100 Prussian sheep-dog next caught a glimpse of one of the half-grown peacock chicks—the joy of the Mistress’ summer—strutting across the lawn. Melisande, with a yap of glee, rushed off in pursuit.

The chick had no fear. The dogs of The Place had always been trained to give the fowls a wide berth; so the pretty little peacock fell a pitifully easy prey to the first snap of Melisande’s jaws.

Lad growled, deep down in his throat, at this gross lawlessness. The Mistress bit her lip to keep her self-control at the slaughter of her pet. The Master hastily said something that was lost in the louder volume of the Wall Street Farmer’s bellow as he sought to call back his $1100 treasure from further slaying.

“Well, well, well!” the guest exclaimed as at last he returned to the veranda, dragging Melisande along in his wake. “I’m sorry this happened, but you must overlook it. You see, Melisande is so high spirited she is hard to control. That’s the way with thoroughbred dogs. Don’t you find it so?”

The Master, thus appealed to, glanced at his wife. She was momentarily out of ear-shot, having gone to pick up the killed peacock and stroke its rumpled plumage. So the Master allowed himself the luxury of plainer speech than if she had been there to be grieved over the breach of hospitality.

“A thoroughbred dog,” he said oracularly, “is either the best dog on earth, or else he is the worst. If he is the best he learns to mind, and to behave himself in every way like a thoroughbred. He learns it without being beaten or sworn at. If he is the worst—then it’s wisest for his owner to hunt up some Easy Mark and sell the cur to him for $1100. You’ll notice I said his ‘owner’—not his ‘master.’ There’s all the difference in the world between those two terms. Any body, with price to buy a dog, can be an ‘owner,’ but all the cash coined won’t make a man a dog’s ‘master’—unless he’s that sort of man. Think it over.”

The Wall Street Farmer glared apoplectically at his host, who was already sorry that the sneer at Lad and the killing of his wife’s pet had made him speak so to a guest—even to a self-invited and undesired guest. Then the Wall Street Man, with a grunt, put a leash on Melisande and gruffly asked that she be fastened to one of the vacant kennels.

The Mistress came back to the group as the $1100 beast was led away, kennel ward, by the gardener. Recovering her self-possession, the Mistress said to her guest:

“I never heard of a Prussian sheep-dog before. Is she trained to herd your sheep?”

“No,” replied the Wall Street Farmer, his rancor forgotten in the prospect of exploiting his wondrous dog, “not yet. In fact, she hates the sheep. She’s young, so we haven’t tried to train her for shepherding. Two or three times we have taken her into the pasture always on leash but she flies at the sheep and goes almost crazy with anger. McGillicuddy says it’s bad for the sheep to be scared by her. So we keep her away from them. But by next season—”

He got no further. ‘A sound of lamentation—prolonged and leather-lunged lamentation—smote upon the air.

“Morty!” ejaculated the visitor in panic. “It’s Morty! Quick!”

Following the easily traceable direction of the squalling, he ran up the veranda steps and into the house—closely followed by the Mistress and the Master.

The engaging Mortimer was of the stuff whereof explorers are made. No pent-up Utica—nor veranda—contracted his powers. Bored by the stupid talk of grown folk, wearying of Lad’s friendly advances, he had slipped through the open house door into the living-room.

There, for the day was cool, a jolly wood fire blazed on the hearth. In front of the fireplace was an enormous and cavernous couch. In the precise center of the couch was curled something that looked like a ball of the grayish fluff a maid sweeps under the bed.

As Mortimer came into the room the infatuated Lad at his heels, the fluffy ball lazily uncurled and stretched—thereby revealing itself as no ball, but a super furry gray kitten—the Mistress’ temperamental new Persian kitten rejoicing in the dreamily Oriental name of Tipperary.

With a squeal of glad discovery, Mortimer grabbed Tipperary with both hands, essaying to pull her fox-brush tail. Now, no sane person needs to be told the basic difference between the heart of a cat and the heart of a dog. Nor will any student of Persian kittens be surprised to hear that Tipperary ‘s reception of the ruffianly baby’s advances was totally different from Lad’s.

A lightning stroke of one of her shapeless forepaws, and Tipperary was free. Morty stood blinking in amaze at four geometrically regular red marks on the back of his own pudgy hand. Tipperary had not done her persecutor the honor to run away. She merely moved to the far end of the couch and lay down there to renew her nap.

A mad fury fired the brain of Mortimer; a fury goaded by the pain of his scratches. Screaming in rage he seized the cat by the nape of the neck—to be safe from teeth and whizzing claws—and stamped across toward the high-burning fire with her. His arm was drawn back to fling the squirming and offending kitten into the scarlet heart of the flames. And then Lad intervened.

Now Lad was not in the very least interested in Tipperary; treating the temperamental Persian always with marked coldness. It is even doubtful if he realized Morty’s intent.

But one thing he did realize—that a silly baby was toddling straight toward the fire. As many another wise dog has gone, before and since, Lad quietly stepped between Morty and the hearth. He stood, broadside to the fire and to the child—a shaggy wall between the peril and the baby.

But so quickly had anger carried Mortimer toward the hearth that the dog had not been able to block his progress until only a bare eighteen inches separated the youngster from the blaze.

Thus Lad found the heat from the burning logs all but intolerable. It bit through his thick coat and into the tender flesh beneath. Like a rock he stood there.

Mortimer, his gentle plan of kitten killing foiled, redoubled his screeches. Lad’s back was higher than the child’s eyes. Yet Morty sought to hurl the kitten over this stolid barrier into the fire.

Tipperary fell short; landing on the dog’s shoulders, digging her needle claws viciously therein, and thence leaping to the floor, from which she sprang to the top of the bookshelves, spitting back blasphemously at her tormentor.

Morty’s interest in the fire had been purely as a piece of immolation for the cat, but finding his path to it barred, he straightway resolved to go thither himself.

He started to move round to it, in front of Lad. The dog took a forward step that again barred the way. Morty went insane with wrath at this new interference with his sweet plans. His howls swelled to a sustained roar, that reached the ears of the grown-ups on the lawn.

He flew at Lad, beating the dog with all the puny force of his fists, sinking his milk teeth into the collie’s back, wrenching and tearing at the thick fur, stamping with his booted heels upon the absurdly tiny white forepaws, kicking the short ribs and the tender stomach.

Never for an instant did the child slacken his howls as he punished the dog that was saving him from death. Rather, he increased their volume from moment to moment. Lad did not stir. The kicking and beating and gouging and hair-pulling were not pleasant, but they were wholly bearable. The heat was not. The smell of singed hair began to fill the room, but Lad stood firm.

And then in rushed the relief expedition, the Wall Street Farmer at its head.

At once concluding that Lad had bitten his son’s bleeding hand, the irate father swung aloft a chair and strode to the rescue.

Lad saw him coming.

With the lightning swiftness of his kind he whirled to one side as the mass of wood descended. The chair missed him by a fraction of an inch and splintered into pieces. It was a Chippendale, and had belonged to the Mistress’ great grandparents.

For the first time in all his blameless life Lad broke the sacred Guest Law by growling at a vouched-for visitor. But surely this fat bellower was no guest! Lad looked at his gods for information.

“Down, Lad!” said the Master very gently, his voice not quite steady.

Lad, perplexed but obedient, dropped to the floor.

“The brute tried to kill my boy!” stormed the Wall Street Farmer right dramatically as he caught the howling Morty up in his arms to study the extent of the wound.

“He’s my guest! He’s my guest! !” the Master was saying over and over to himself. “Lord, help me to keep on remembering he’s my GUEST!”

The Mistress came forward.

“Lad would sooner die than hurt a child,” she declared, trying not to think of the wrecked heirloom chair. “He loves children. Here, let me see Morty’s hand. Why, those are claw-marks! Cat scratches!”

“Ve nassy cat scwatched me!” bawled Morty. “Kill her, daddy! I twied to. I twied to frow her in ve fire. But ve mizz’ble dog wouldn’t let me! Kill her, daddy! Kill ve dog too!”

The Master’s mouth flew wide open.

“Won’t you go down to the paddock, dear,” hastily interposed the Mistress, “and see if the sheep are all right? Take Lad along with you.”

Lad, alone of all The Place’s dogs, had the run of the house, night and day, of the sacred dining-room. During the rest of that day he did not avail himself of his high privilege. He kept out of the way—perplexed, woe-begone, his burns still paining him despite the Master’s ministrations.

After talking long and loudly all evening of his sheep’s peerless quality and of their certain victory over all comers in the fair the Wall Street Farmer consented at last to go to bed. And silence settled over The Place.

In the black hour before dawn, that same silence was split in a score of places—split into a most horrible cacophony of sound that sent sleep scampering to the winds.

It was the mingling of yells and bleats and barks and the scurry of many feet. It burst out all at once in full force, lasting for some seconds with increasing clangor; then died to stillness.

By that time every human on The Place was out of bed. In more or less rudimentary attire the house’s inhabitants trooped down into the lower hall. There the Wall Street Farmer was raving noisily and was yanking at a door bolt whose secret he could not fathom.

“It’s my sheep!” he shouted. “That accursed dog of yours has gotten at them. He’s slaughtering them. I heard the poor things bleating and I heard him snarling among them. They cost me—”

“If you’re speaking of Lad,” blazed the Master, “he’s—”

“Here are the flashlights,” interposed the Mistress. “Let me open that door for you. I understand the bolt.”

Out into the dark they went, all but colliding with McGillicuddy. The Scot, awakened like the rest, had gone to the paddock. He had now come back to report the paddock empty and all the sheep gone.

“It’s the collie tike!” sputtered McGillicuddy. “I’ll tak’ oath to it. I ken it’s him. I suspeecioned him a’ long, from how he garred at oor sheep the day. He—”

“I said so!” roared the Wall Street Farmer. “The murderous brute! First, he tries to kill Morty. And now he slaughters my sheep. You—”

The Master started to speak. But a white little hand, in the darkness, was laid gently across his mouth.

“You told me he always slept under the piano in your music room!” accused the guest as the four made their way paddock-ward, lighting a path with the electric flashlights. “Well, I looked there just now. He isn’t under the piano. He— He—”

“Lad!” called the Master; then at the top of his lungs. “Lad!”

A distant growl, a snarl, a yelp, a scramble—and presently Lad appeared in the farthest radius of the flashlight flare.

For only a moment he stood there. Then he wheeled about and vanished in the dark. Nor had the Master the voice to call him back. The momentary glimpse of the great collie, in the merciless gleam of the lights, had stricken the whole party into an instant’s speechlessness.

Vividly distinct against the darkness they had seen Lad. His well-groomed coat was rumpled. His eyes were fire-balls. And—his jaws were red with blood. Then he had vanished.

A groan from the Master—a groan of heartbreak—was the first sound from the four. The dog he loved was a killer.

“It isn’t true! It isn’t true!” stoutly declared the Mistress.

The Wall Street Farmer and McGillicuddy had already broken into a run. The shepherd had found the tracks of many little hoofs on the dewy ground. And he was following the trail. The guest, swearing and panting, was behind him. The Mistress and the Master brought up the rear.

At every step they peered fearfully around them for what they dreaded to see—the mangled body of some slain sheep. But they saw none. And they followed the trail.

In a quarter mile they came to its end.

All four flashlights played simultaneously upon a tiny hillock that rose from the meadow at the forest edge. The hillock was usually green. Now it was white.

Around its short slopes was huddled a flock of sheep, as close-ringed as though by a fence. At the hillock’s summit sat Lad. He was sitting there in a queer attitude, one of his snowy forepaws pinning something to the ground—something that could not be clearly distinguished through the huddle, but which, evidently, was no sheep.

The Wall Street Farmer broke the tense silence with a gobbled exclamation.

“Whisht!” half reverently interrupted the shepherd, who had been circling the hillock on census duty. “There’s na a sheep gone, nor—so f ar’s I can see—a sheep hurted. The fu’ twenty is there.”

The Master’s flashlight found a gap through which its rays could reach the hillock crest. The light revealed, under Lad’s gently pinioning forepaw, the crouching and badly scared Melisande—the $1100 Prussian sheep dog.

McGillicuddy, with a grunt, was off on another and longer tour of inspection. Presently he came back. He was breathing hard.

Even before McGillicuddy made his report the Master had guessed at the main points of the mystery’s solution.

Melisande, weary of captivity, had gnawed through her leash. Seeking sport, she had gone to the paddock. There she had easily worried loose the crazy gate latch. Just as she was wriggling through, Lad appeared from the veranda.

He had tried to drive back the would-be killer from her prey. Lad was a veteran of several battles. But, apart from her sex, Melisande was no opponent for him. And he had treated her accordingly. Melisande had snapped at him, cutting him deeply in the under jaw. During the scrimmage the panic-urged sheep had bolted out of the paddock and had scattered.

Remember, please, that Lad, ten hours earlier, had never in his life seen a sheep. But remember, too, that a million of his ancestors had won their right to a livelihood by their almost supernatural skill at herding flocks. Let this explain what actually happened—the throwback of a great collie’s instinct.

Driving the scared and subdued Melisande before him—and ever hampered by her unwelcome presence—Lad proceeded to round up the scattered sheep. He was in the midst of the process when the Master called him. Merely galloping back for an instant, and finding the summons was not repeated, he returned to his atavistic task.

In less than five minutes the twenty scampering runaways were “ringed” on the hillock. And, still keeping the Prussian sheep dog out of mischief, Lad established himself in the ring’s center.

Further than that, and the keeping of the ring intact, his primal instincts did not serve him. Having rounded up his flock Lad had not the remotest idea what to do with them. So he merely held them there until the noisily gabbling humans should decide to take the matter out of his care.

McGillicuddy examined every sheep separately and found not a scratch or a stain on any of them. Then he told in effect what has here been set down as to Lad’s exploit.

As he finished his recital McGillicuddy looked shamefacedly around him as though gathering courage for an irksome task. A sickly yellow dawn was crawling over the eastern mountains, throwing a ghostly glow on the shepherd’s dour and craggy visage. Drawing a long breath of resolve he advanced upon Lad. Dropping on one knee, his eyes on a level with the unconcernedly observant collie’s, McGillicuddy intoned:

“Laddie, ye’re a braw, braw dog. Ou, a canny dog! A sonsie dog, Laddie! I hae na met yer match this side o’ Kirkcaldy Brae. Gin ye’ll tak’ an auld fule’s apology for wrangin’ ye, an’ an auld fule’s hand in gude fellowship, ’twill pleasure me, Laddie. Winna ye let bygones be bygones, an’ shake?”

Yes, the speech was ridiculous, but no one felt like laughing, not even the Wall Street Farmer. The shepherd was gravely sincere and he knew that Lad would understand his burring words.

And Lad did understand. Solemnly he sat up. Solemnly he laid one white forepaw in the gnarled palm the kneeling shepherd outstretched to him. His eyes glinted in wise friendliness as they met the admiring gaze of the old man. Two born shepherds were face to face. Deep was calling unto deep.

Presently McGillicuddy broke the spell by rising abruptly to his feet. Gruffly he turned to the Master.

“There’s na wit, sir,” he growled, “in speirin’ will ye sell him. But—but I compliment ye on him, nanetheless.”

“That’s right; McGillicuddy’s right!” boomed the Wall Street Farmer, catching but part of his shepherd’s mumbled words. “Good idea! He is a fine dog. I see that now. I was prejudiced. I freely admit it. A remarkable dog. What’ll you take for him? Or—better yet, how would you like to swap, even, for Melisande?”

The Master’s mouth again flew ajar, and many sizzling words jostled each other in his throat. Before any of these could shame his hospitality by escaping, the Mistress hurriedly interposed:

“Dear, we left all the house doors wide open. Would you mind hurrying back ahead of us and seeing that everything is safe? And—will you take Lad with you?”