Murphy Part 2

It is time to return to the more homely matter of Dan, that instances may be given of how, on one occasion out of many, he exhibited the possession of the sense of direction, and also of the eye he had for country.

The writer had to make a journey to a neighbouring town by rail. The distance as the crow flies was not more than six miles, but the railway journey took the best part of an hour and entailed a change and waiting at a junction. Daniel accompanied him, having never made the journey before, or visited the junction, or the station of the town referred to.

On arrival, the writer elected to walk. Now Daniel was almost entirely strange to towns, and, though all went well at first, he finally succ.u.mbed to the fascinations of the streets, and disappeared. Every means were at once taken to find him; the police station was visited, the cab-drivers were warned, and a reward was offered. In the end, the writer had to return without the dog, and face the reproaches of the family. A gloom fell upon the house for the rest of the evening. But soon after ten o'clock a bark was heard, the front door was thrown open, and Daniel entered; in a state, it may be added, that bordered on hysterics, and with the tail wagging the dog more violently than ever. It was seven hours from the time he had been missed, and no light was ever thrown on how he had accomplished the journey.

A dog's memory is proverbial. There is ample reason for believing that many dogs, when once they have smelt your hand, never forget you. But they also often appear to make mental notes of what they see, and to retain these in their minds. A retriever that has worked long on an estate will be found to know the position of almost every gate and stile in every field, and will use his knowledge instantly as occasions arise.

He equally appears to know the rides of the woods within his beat, and where they lead. In other words, he has, in hunting parlance, an eye for country; and here is an instance from Daniel's life by way of ill.u.s.tration.

To reach a neighbouring village on one occasion, the writer used a tricycle. There was only one road to this village, distant five miles, and this was bounded on one side by woods and on the other by the river Thames, which it was necessary to cross at the outset. Here and there between the road and the river were houses, the gardens and grounds of which were surrounded by walls and fencing extending to the river-banks.

The tow-path was on the further side. It chanced that after three miles had been traversed, another tricycle caught up the writer and pa.s.sed him.

Dan was ahead, mistook this machine for his own, and went on out of sight. The weather looking threatening, the writer decided to return home, feeling confident that the dog would discover his mistake and follow. A bicycle now overtook the writer, the rider of which, in answer to inquiries, said that he had seen an Irish terrier entering the village he had left, three miles back, cantering in front of a tricycle. There was nothing to be done but to go leisurely home, waiting every now and then to see if the dog was coming, while growing always more and more uneasy at his non-appearance. At last the home was reached--and on the front-door mat sat Daniel!

The dog was perfectly dry, and had still the dust of the road on him. He could not therefore have swum the river; moreover, he had no taste for water. Equally, he had not come along the only road; while it was impossible for him to have travelled through the woods or along the land lying between the road and the river. There was only one solution of the difficulty, and this was undoubtedly correct. In his walks along the hills the dog must have noticed a railway in the valley and its bridge across the river. He had certainly never been along this railway or over this bridge. But he remembered its existence when he was lost, made his way to it, got over the river without the necessity of swimming, and reached home across country in time to meet his master, and with an expression on his face of, "Well--what do you say to that?"

One more story of him must be given, showing his extraordinary sagacity as well as his determination. When he had set his mind on anything, brick walls were well-nigh powerless to stop him. He obeyed one man, if he were by; in his absence, he acted solely in furtherance of the plans he had in mind, and always with a knowing expression on his face.

He was paying a visit in the West of England, and had quickly found his way about. One day at luncheon some one was rash enough to remark in Dan's hearing that the carriage was going out. To run with the carriage was strictly forbidden, and this Dan never failed to resent, as he did also being shut up before the carriage came round. "Carriage" was one of the thirty-eight words with which he was intimately acquainted, and when he heard it used on this occasion he may have made mental notes concerning plans to which he vowed he would be no party. However this may have been, shortly before the hour arrived for the carriage to start Dan could nowhere be found.

The road leading from the house branched into three at the end of about a mile; and, as this point opened to view on the afternoon in question, a yellow figure was seen to be standing there motionless, evidently waiting to see which of the three ways the carriage would take. Needless to say it was Dan, and that of course he had his run.

But an end must be made of chronicling the further remarkable achievements of this wholly remarkable dog--his sage comments as he grew older, his faithful discharge of his duties as he roamed the pa.s.sages at night, his intense love of sport and his deeds in that field in spite of his being hopelessly gun-shy, his large heart, and those beautiful manners which he still made pathetic efforts to show, even when he moved with great difficulty and was both deaf and almost blind. He was just a high-bred gentleman; and he had about him something of the courtesy of the old school, which will still be discernible in some dogs when we have finally and altogether lost the art ourselves.

Daniel was now growing old, if indeed he had not already done so. It was obvious that he could not last much longer--perhaps a year; not more--and it was necessary, therefore, to find an understudy. Irish terriers had been a part of the household for many years. Yet another must be discovered, though, as all agreed, there could never be another like Dan.

Thus it came about that inquiries were made in likely quarters, and a letter was despatched to one who could be trusted, and who was known the country over for the dogs he owned.

V

"Yes," came the answer; "I think I have just the dog to suit you. With an old dog in the house such as you describe, every dog would not do; but the one I speak of is a _good_ dog, with good manners and a very gentle disposition. You know that I do not make a practice of selling my dogs, but you shall have this one for ---- guineas, and I will send him along any day that may suit you.

"I forgot to say he is well-bred; Postman-Barbara. He is entered as Murphy."

Two days later a dog's travelling-box was put out on to the platform of a little country station, and there and then duly opened by the writer.

Lying at the bottom in some hay was a poor, cringing little animal, that had to be lifted out, and then lay flat upon the platform. In such terror was he that nothing would induce him to move; and the only way out of the difficulty was to take him up, while others smiled, and walk out of the station with him.

At a quiet turn of the road the dog was put down, being somewhat heavy, when once again he could not be persuaded to walk, or even to stand upon his feet. Again and again he acted in this way, till at length the house was reached and he was deposited on a mat by the fire, close to a bowl of good food.

And this poor little abject was Murphy!--Murphy, the dog with the pedigree of kings and even emperors; the dog that had run a hare to a standstill; the dog of the happiest disposition of any one in the kennel, and that had been the favourite and playmate of the whole great company.

If this was what pedigrees were likely to produce, better to make a clean sweep of the hereditary principle at once; if this was a picture of a happy disposition, better to try what chronic depression had to show. A sorry favourite this. Up to now a suspicion had been entertained that a playmate should at least be gay. It was all evidently a mistake.

"Murphy!"--Why, this half-starved-looking thing that refused to stir or eat did not even know his name. If a move was made in his direction, he hugged the ground closer than before, s.h.i.+fting his chin backwards and forwards on the rug in abject terror. The coast had purposely been left clear, and Dan was out with the rest of the family.

Presently one looked in, and pa.s.sed sentence without more ado: "Oh, you poor, miserable, shrunken little thing. We can't keep a dog like that--it is impossible!"

Later, Dan appeared. The young dog got up, went respectfully towards him, and licked him deliberately upon the lips. Dan wagged his tail. They were friends. Then once again the newcomer crept on his stomach to the corner of the hearthrug, and remained there cringing when any one went near.

What did it all mean?

Nor were matters any better when the household retired for the night: in truth, they were much worse. The most mysterious sounds ascended from the lower floor, and grew steadily in volume. They woke one and then another, till at last they drew some one from her bed. Such unearthly groans had rarely before been heard from throat of living thing. Of course it was the "new dog," as he had already come to be called, for he surely was not worthy of a name.

A conference was held next day as to what could possibly be done, though with the usual result that some said one thing, some another, and nothing was definitely decided on. Had the matter been put to the vote, the dog would almost certainly have been forthwith returned from whence he came, in spite of a remark from one quarter that such a course might result in something serious.

"'Give a dog a bad name...' We all know the rest. To return this dog is for him almost certainly to be shot--at least, I wouldn't give a penny for his life."

Murphy meanwhile lay curled up tight on his corner of the hearthrug, with his eyes wide open, watching every movement intently. Dan said nothing, and went his way, voting the house to be upside down.

That day pa.s.sed without improvement, though every effort was made and a walk was taken in the fields: the night, the stranger spent in company, for he appeared to have a dread of being left alone. The day following matters were unfortunately made worse. It is the fate of many who are down to find themselves trodden on: the lucky meet with luck; the unlucky, more often, with misfortune. The world is full of remarkably strange ordinances; or rather, it might be said, life is replete with incidents that are often the last wished for. From him that hath not shall be taken away, not alone that which he hath, but even that also which "he seemeth to have." So be it. No doubt, in the majority of instances, he deserves to be so made bereft. On some, however, such things come hard.

The room in which Murphy had taken up his abode was part library, part studio, and part a good many other things. A large picture--the canvas measured six feet--was being worked upon on this second morning after the young dog's arrival; and, as was perversely ruled, it was just here that an accident occurred that might well have been judged impossible. The easel, in fact, with its huge canvas, was overset, carrying many things into limbo as they fell; and with the fate that too often pursues the unfortunate, Murphy therefore found himself suddenly buried beneath a mixed a.s.sortment of articles to which he had hitherto been strange. To add to the rest, a whole string of cattle and sheep bells, brought from various parts of the world, were set ringing, and others were dislodged; and for the moment it appeared that the dog must certainly have been killed. The only good thing subsequently gathered from the strange proceedings was that the dog had uttered no whimper. But if he was frightened before, he was terror-stricken now; and matters had therefore gone from bad to worse.

There is little need to describe what followed. On the one hand, it was judged that this was the proverbial last straw; that the dog would a.s.suredly never recover now; and that therefore the only thing to be done was to send him back, with an earnest appeal for his life to be spared.

Yet, once again, cooler judgments in the end prevailed. The dog had not whimpered. There was something in that. Moreover, by what had now occurred, an injury had been done to his already unhappy spirit, and, unless all honour had ceased to find a place between man and dog, reparation was certainly his due. In one quarter a sense of pity had furthermore been generated--a fact, though unsuspected at the time, that was to prove the hub round which Murphy's whole future was destined to revolve. An appeal to the heart, if such once gets home, can never really fail--unless, as Murphy's countrymen might say, the person appealed to proves heartless.

Thus it was that a sheet of paper that left the house the same evening contained words to this effect:

"I ought to have written to you before about Murphy, as also to have sent you the enclosed cheque. But, to tell you the truth, I have been so much puzzled by this dog that I have purposely waited a day or two before writing to you. I have owned dogs for a great many years and of many breeds and temperaments; but never, in the whole of my experience, have I come across any dog as nervous as this one: it is pitiful to see him.

Even my old dog's presence does not help him; and really, so far, I have been able to make nothing of him. Perhaps he may get better; but I almost doubt it. I wonder if, without you knowing it yourself, the dog has been cruelly treated. I keep looking at him and wondering, for I cannot, somehow, link this dog lying in front of me, and never closing his eyes, with the description you wrote of him. The journey would not account for it. However, we must hope for the best."

To this came answer:

"In face of what you tell me of the dog, I cannot of course accept your cheque, and therefore return it. But do please keep the dog for a month or six weeks, or as long as you like, and write to me again then. I a.s.sure you the dog is a _good_ dog. Perhaps his surroundings are strange to him. They must be. The old dog will help him to come round, I feel sure."

A few days later the door opened, and a stranger was announced. Murphy was on the hearthrug, as usual; the canvas and easel had been banished to a corner, and an effort was being made to accustom Murphy to the clicking of a typewriter--a sound concerning which he was evidently doubtful.

"Ah, Murphy; you're a nice dog, aren't you?" The dog had gone to the door, and the great figure of the Over-Lord was stooping to notice him.

"I always like to see where my dogs go, if possible," he added; "and I wanted to hear from you, as well as to see for myself, what was the matter, for this is a good dog--a nice dog: I know he is. He'll come all right. Just please give him time; and then, if you don't like him, send him back. He is as good a dog--gentle, you know, gentle--as I've bred.

Why, I can a.s.sure you, I refused (mentioning several hundred pounds)--I refused that sum for a pair of his relations, only last year; so you will judge he is well enough in the matter of cla.s.s."

"Why did you refuse? Most people would have jumped at such an offer."

"Well--I'll tell you. I didn't like the man's face that wanted them; nothing else: I always like to see where my dogs go and the people they go to; and, after getting your letter, I determined to make the journey here, as soon as ever I could get the time. He's a nice dog; a good dog--I'm sure of it."

"You don't think there is anything in the suggestion I made to account for his extreme nervousness, do you?"

"Well--I know now that there is. I only got to the bottom of it, though, this morning. These things aren't arrived at in a minute, you know. One working-man very rarely splits upon another."

Then followed the whole story. "It was cruel--cruel," he jerked out at the end, finis.h.i.+ng with, "I may as well tell you, I never liked the man.

Latterly his work was anyhow--went from bad to worse, and I discharged him."

There was silence. Two great big men were sitting looking at the dog lying between them. The dog's eyebrows moved continually: his brilliant eyes travelled from one to the other; and presently he heaved a deep sigh, as much as to say, "It's all quite true--quite true."

If there had been hesitation about keeping Murphy before, there was an end to it now. Here was a dog--a young life--that had once, and not so long ago, been the delight of the kennel, the very embodiment of light-hearted fun and happiness; the most promising of all the younger lot, and one that had never been guilty of wrong. Send him back! Give him up! What might his fate be if he went elsewhere? Death? Look at him. Look at his large brilliant eyes. They betoken nervousness, of course--inherent nervousness, probably. A cruel injustice had been done by this dumb thing, and by one of Us. Give him up! Clearly everything most prized was at stake, and claimed the exact opposite.

Why should a different justice be the lot of a dog to that meted out to a man? Is the superiority all one way? Each man knows in his heart that it is not; that the dog is often the better of the two.

How the thoughts raced through the brain!