The Crowded Hearthstone

by Harold Titus

The Crowded Hearthstone

By Harold Titus

 

Doesn't everybody who loves dogs love a good dog story? Here is one—with a high-bred human-hearted little bull-pup for hero, losing and regaining his place at the crowded hearthstone. How he did it makes one of Harold Titus's best stories of this Western forest country which he knows so well.

 

THE wedding of Lola Mason to Tom Heddon was occasion for the strangest show in which the dog had ever been an entry. There were no others of his kind on display, no ring, no judging; he was forced to compete for notice with cut glass and silver and furniture and such, and although he drew more than his share of attention, it was a stupid sort, he believed, for of all the exclamations his presence brought out he caught not one intelligent comment.

Usually at shows people would stop before him and say—“Oh, here's Beau Bummel!” as if they had been looking for him high and low; and then they would discuss all the fine points which went to make him a clinker among bull-terriers.

Not so at this affair. People spoke to him, but only because he was of such quality that his importance carried to the understanding of those who did not know dogs; consequently what they said was what the novice always says, and he sat on his table with an air that approached boredom.

It had been a queer change, anyhow, and mostly delightful. A kennel, run as Billing ran Wentworth's, is no place for a dog that is enthusiastically alive, whose every impulse is friendly action. Billing wanted to rear Beau Brummel a gentleman, which meant, among a few nice things, continual restraint, constant attempts to defeat his most genuine intentions and keep him steadily dignified—when the thing the terrier wanted was anything but steadiness and dignity!

He thought it meant a run with Billing when the trainer took him out that May morning, but it meant a bath instead, a clipping of claws and a thorough brushing. He was taken across the lawn to the big house, and grizzled Wentworth himself came out with a long envelope which he fastened to the dog's collar. On the envelope was written:

 

“A Beau for a Bride!
Introducing Beau Brummel of Lancaster
His family credentials herewith.

 

Then he had been placed in the limousine and scooted into Detroit, sitting on the cushions, stiffly obedient and only betraying his high interest in other things, his longing to behave otherwise, by occasional thrusts of his nose or low whinings or shiftings of front feet as they passed dogs that were free to run as they pleased, or cross roads that led somewhere, or thickets that looked like fine places to investigate.

When they stopped, Billing took him up the walk to a large house on Jefferson Avenue, and they waited in the doorway for Lola Mason to appear. She emerged from the interior gloom into sunlight like sunshine itself, a radiant girl, fine-boned, fine-skinned, with lighted blue eyes, and poise and manner.

She stopped with hands clasped beneath her tapering chin and looked at the dog; and the dog stopped snapping at a fly to look up, head tilted to one side, as he studied her face. In a moment he wagged his tail in approval and started forward, and she dropped to her knees and took his face between her small palms and cried:

“Billing, he isn't for me!”

And Billing touched his cap and said that he was, with Mr. Wentworth's best wishes and, “'oping it ain't out o' place, mine too, miss.”

Whereupon the girl sat back on her heels and Beau Brummel of Lancaster made a gesture as if to lick the hands which she clapped; but Billing disapproved of that, so he sat back on his haunches and scrubbed the step with his tail and whined delight.

“'E's a gen'leman, miss: 'e knows a lydy when 'e see's um,” said Billing.

And then Lola was dancing back into the house, dog at her heels, calling on the family to come and see this gift. There was no restraint about her, and quickly the terrier let some of the enthusiasm which Billing had always bottled up spill out; by noon they were splendid friends, and Beau had seen and liked Tom Heddon and thought that his life had become much more worth while.

That night he slept in a house for the first time. Curled on a rug at the foot of Lola's bed he was very happy, waking now and then and rapping the floor softly as she moved in her sleep.

The confusion of the following morning was bewildering and it was not until the guests began to inspect the gifts after the ceremony that the terrier came to himself. The expectancy which has been about him became less evident, his lolling tongue was withdrawn, his excited panting slowed and he elevated his nose as he sat listening to the banal comments that were made about him.

But when a man led him out a side door to a waiting runabout the dog again evinced interest. He even whined shrilly in query, and the whine ran into a yowl of satisfaction as his mistress and master came down the steps, jumped into the machine and whistled him to follow.

Down Jefferson Avenue to Woodward, up Woodward through Highland Park, bowling over the concrete road, they went northward. Lola sat close to Tom as the noonday sun blessed them and Beau Brummel sat close to her slim feet, nose poked over the door and around the windshield, watching the country scoot toward them.

As they sped past the Wentworth place, Lola said, “Beau, there's your old home!”

And the terrier looked back and smiled a dog smile and promptly thrust his nose back into the sweep of cool air. What cared he for his old home, or anything old? The bars had been let down, there was something new in the air now—vibrant youthfulness about the voices of the two with him, a free-and-easy rush to the car that spoke of new horizons, of spontaneity, of love and laughter.

 

FLINT and Saginaw fell behind, and at dusk they dropped off the gravel roads and took up a sand trail that wound through a forest of jack pine, pine that switched Beau's nose as he held it out, and that smelled fresh and cool. A moon floated up and mantled the vast sweeps of country with its light. There were no houses, no signs of men—until midnight, when they stopped before a wire gate over which hung a sign, “Windigo Lodge.”

In such manner they came to Dr. Mason's fishing retreat on the Au Sable, and for all of them a life of surprising ecstasy unfolded. This, though, is the tale of a dog, so pass by the happiness of a man and a woman and consider only the joy of an animal that comes into his own.

No kennel, no restrictions, no Billing; people that his discriminating taste approved, absolute liberty and a country to explore that was measured by long miles. He could unbend! No one expected anything else of him, and he leaped and yelped in the sheer delight of being free. Except for little things that were only decent, he could forget that there ever was such an influence as one middle-aged, sour man's idea of how a young terrier should behave!

And he had companionship; real, constant companionship. There were long walks across the pine plains, along the high banks of the stream; walks without destination. At first the terrier stayed at heel, a remnant of his dignity restraining him from the impulse to examine every strange thing, but his tentative excursions were not followed by reprimand, and suddenly realizing that to amble was his privilege, he ambled with an ardor that increased until he tore about the strollers in wide circles, through poplar and pine thickets, diving into spruce and balsam along the river, stopping now and then to sniff inquiringly as the pointer strain faintly prompted a stand, occasionally pursuing a darting cotton-tail with an enthusiasm and confidence that was wholly puppyish.

Tom and Lola laughed whole-heartedly when he came swooping back to them, tongue out, ears up and eyes bright. They approved! So he would be away again, bounding tirelessly.

On the return to the house from those tramps he would pause at the door in sudden doubt of his status.

“He doesn't know he's welcome!” the girl cried after he had so hesitated several times. “Kennel days are over, Beau! You belong. Good dog! Come on!”

 

AND he came on with a dive that sent him rolling in the folds of a misplaced rug, from whence he emerged all panting delight.

But of all things it was the evenings on the hearthstone which seemed to mean most to the terrier. Michigan Mays are not balmy, and the caretaker kept a generous supply of pitch-pine in the bark box beside the great fireplace; and at dark Tom and Lola would sit cross-legged on pillows before the blaze, fingers intertwined, voices low, reading their future in the leaping flames.

Before them the dog would stretch, feet far toward the fire, eyes closed to a slit, quirking an ear occasionally, now and then flopping his tail in lazy satisfaction, and when the flames grew unusually high he would let his tongue loll on the stones and pant with happiness. There was no sigh or exultation about him at those times, but a mellow contentment, a settled sense of peace and security, that well-being which, in proper perspective, is of far more account than ecstasy.

But even successful honeymoons are not permanent, and after a seemingly brief span the bags were packed and the three settled themselves and headed southward to the home that was waiting.

For Beau Brummel there was no more frantic running through brakes and sweet fern, no more uninterrupted association with Tom and Lola, but on summer evenings and on long Sundays there was companionship which seemed all the better for the less satisfactory intervals. Solemnly each morning he stood by while Lola kissed her husband; then watched the car round the corner and stood a moment longer, nose working slowly. He made a daily tour of inspection of house, garage and yard. He supervised the butcher's boy and the ice man and others who came, and then waited for evening, when they might all be joined again.

He discovered Tom's tennis balls and carried one out, inviting play by muffled growls and plunges with stiff fore feet. He sat in the doorway of the dining-room during dinner, rather sedate and patient, but once it was over he commenced a boisterous chase round and round the table, growling in mock rage, until, on the point of capture, he would tear away through the house, piling rugs in disorder as he slipped and skidded on the floor until they cornered and mauled him much to his doggish delight.

He went swimming with Lola and her friends; he learned to fetch articles from other rooms; he became adept at eluding the doorman at the neighborhood picture-theatre and would come crawling under rows of seats until he found his people, at whose feet he would curl and make no betraying move until they departed; he played golf with Tom, taking great interest in that bound and roll of balls. When the two spent an evening away from him, Beau was always there with nose against the glass of the front door, on their return as if he had stood so since their departure, waiting only to pant a glad welcome.

 

IN THESE ways he endeared himself to the others and it was as if he had always been a part of the family, always free to play and demonstrate affection. He was loved and respected, and repaid them with his loyalty and a behavior that was universally good.

Then came fall and change.

Play times with balls and about the house suddenly became irregular and of short duration. Lola and Tom seemed abstracted, their minds on things which did not concern the dog. The fire was lighted in the fireplace and the three sat before it now and then, but there was none of the closeness which Beau had known before that other fire. He begged for heed with touches of his paw and sniffs and long stares, but was rewarded by only casual caresses.

By winter the dog had no manifest place in the family. His presence was not resented, but that was as much as could be said. He grew restless, he was in a constant quandary; now and then he would sit on the unlighted hearth with head down, dejected and lonely, rolling his eyes sadly when he looked about.

And then the household went completely to pot. There was an hour of confusion, sudden departure, and for a fortnight Beau was alone with the maid, who reminded him of Billing. Tom came in at night, but often he did no more than speak to the dog, though he whistled and seemed very happy.

Beau was hurt. He had been made much of, and now, though he had not offended the people he loved, he was overlooked. Morning he would sit outside Tom's door waiting to hear him rise and dress, trying not to be too hopeful. That last was wise, for Tom would go away like as not with no indication of a farewell, and Beau would be alone with the maid and hear only her protests against his white hairs on the rugs. There was nothing to do but wonder about Lola and hope. He couldn't help hoping a little!

Then Lola and the explanation came home. The explanation was a bundle which at times was very quiet and at others extremely rackety, but always it was the center of interest; and Tom and Lola lavished so many superlatives on the bundle, which was Tom junior, that Beau in the course of a short time was thoroughly disgusted with it and them. At least, so he appeared. Jealously often feigns disgust.

Lola remained up-stairs a long time and the nurse would not let Beau in to see her. When she was carried down, the dog was so delighted that he cavorted about the room in a scramble and ended before her with a glad barking.

“Oh, Beau!” she cried in caution. “Stop it, sir!”

She was really sharp in manner and he stopped in surprise, waiting for some counter move to take away the sting of rebuke. But Lola only listened to hear if the bundle was noisy when it should be quiet, and the dog drew back, tail wagging sheepishly and ears down in apology. He sat in a far corner and licked his chops, and now and then rapped his tail timidly for attention, trusting he would be invited out. But they gave him no heed at all. He had only been happy to see her, and had been squelched for it!

It was unexplainable. He passed much time sitting in the lower hallway, ears stiff and head cocked, holding his breath to catch all sounds that came from above, but he could learn nothing that helped him and there was no one to aid his understanding.

A feeling of resentment followed this failure. He had been replaced, and unjustly; there was nothing he could do except to blame the bundle. He nursed this grievance and it grew, until when he heard those noises from young Tommy, he would grumble softly and shift his body in irritation.

Then one day when the baby lay kicking on the davenport they called him to come and see, evidence that there was still room in their hearts for him, but he did not take it so. He approached, lifted his nose and sniffed the infant. All his sense of injury swelled within him and, though he really did not mean it, he could not for the life of him keep the upper lip from a slight recession nor choke down the breath of growl that came into his throat.

There was a sharp move and a hard word from Tom; an order to leave the room; then a strained interval.

“Why, his nose is out of joint!” Lola cried finally.

“That or something. By Jove, we can't have that!” her husband declared.

And the dog was in disgrace.

 

THEREAFTER he had few rights in the house. He was not allowed to sleep up-stairs but consigned to the basement during cold weather and to the garage at other times. He became uncared-for and unwashed. If they carried the child into a room and happened to find him there—which was rarely—he was told to leave. There was some discussion of the advisability of letting the baby sleep on the porch unguarded from the dog, and once they talked of disposing of him wholly; in all probability this would have been done had he not come from Wentworth, and as a wedding-gift.

All this to Beau Brummel of Lancaster, who had been born and reared a gentleman! He was ashamed, but his pride was as strong as his shame. He had done wrong, but he could not go crawling and sniveling for pardon as a dog of a less noble breed might have done. He kept his dour front, but behind it he suffered, evidence of which might have been gathered without trouble had any one cared to understand.

Strange—also significant—fact: The terrier soon took an immense interest in young Tommy, who had ousted him. The baby was small and helpless and good-natured, and performed as Beau had never seen any animal perform. His curiosity was aroused. Too, the youngster was penned up and restricted; rather kenneled. Beau understood what that meant.

From concealment he would watch Tom junior at play, very still and stiff and intent, missing no move; and it was not unusual for him to quiver and whine inquiringly at intervals and, now and then, he would yawn and lick his lips and a longing would show in his black, bright eyes. He never ventured to make open advances when others were in sight. There was his pride!

The pride, however, came to be concerned only with Tom and Lola; not with his relations to the baby at all. Young Tom liked bones; that was another bond, and recognition of it occasioned Beau's first act of stealthy homage. The baby, safe behind his gate on the porch, was licking a bald chicken drumstick. The dog, hiding in the shrubbery, watched for a time, and then skulked off into the back yard, dug hastily to unearth an ancient but choice bone put by against a time of want. This, with great care not to be detected, he placed against the wicket which kenneled young Tom, and stole back to cover. The maid threw the bone away and said hard things about the dog, but Beau did not mind. He tried this again several times and wondered why the boy did not understand that the bones were for him.

He found other opportunities; small favors to be sure. He would retrieve balls and other toys that had gotten out of reach, placing them near to the small hands, and slinking back to watch. When Tommy picked them up, the tip of the terrier's tail would wiggle.

And so on, with no outward change.

In the baby's third summer, the automobile was again stuffed with bags and wraps and took up the way to Windigo Lodge. Beau Brummel was along, because there was no other place for him to go. Young Tom sat between his parents, and at frequent intervals made dives for the dog, who had never before been so close to him in the presence of others; but on such moves he was put firmly back, and one or the other would say:

“No, Tommy, he might hurt you!”

Beau, hearing, only shoved his nose a bit farther past the windshield as he winced.

The lodge was as they had left it four years before, except that the season was further advanced, warmer, and more people were about; Dr, Mason, with his friends, coming and going. Tom junior was every bit as enthusiastic over the place as the dog had been, but because of bodily shortcomings was less demonstrative. The stubby legs did well, however, and never tired of heeding the impulse to be gone into far and strange places, all of which caused his parents concern, his grandfather delight and every one much chasing.

All this was watched by Beau with a queer longing. He spent much of his time with Evans, the caretaker; not because he liked Evans, but because he must be somewhere. Now and then he would venture to the screened veranda of the big house and lie in a corner far from the people, but he did not lie quietly and was not at ease. His memory persisted in contrasts. On cool nights when the people gathered about the fire he would sit in the doorway and look broodingly, recalling those other times when he lay there so happy in being closely identified with the people on the hearthstone.

The setting refreshed for Tom and Lola memories of those other days and one night before the fire the girl said:

“Poor old Beau! How he loved the fire when we were here before.” And, turning to see him outside: “Come on in, Beau. Remember the fire?”

 

THE dog responded without enthusiasm. He did not go through the group, but seated himself beside her chair and sniffed her hand and sighed. They tried to coax him to the hearth, but he was politely stubborn and refused to go; and after a time he stalked out again to watch the circle from a distance and whimper under his breath. He did not belong there now; he was under suspicion, and the worst of it was he had given them cause. He was quite miserable. Several times they tried to urge him in, but always he sat still and vibrated his tail and declined to go.

The season had been exceptionally dry. Heat had endured for long and, though the run of high temperature was broken at intervals, no rain fell. Brakes turned yellow, then brown, and even sweet fern shriveled. Some days there had been smoke and the people at Windigo talked casually of fire, but there was none near enough to cause actual concern. The day came, however, when the smoke was thicker and at night they could catch a distant glow of flames. In the morning the wind grew steadily out of the south west and the sun was hidden. Ashes dusted down, ominously. At noon a fire-warden, eyes inflamed and face strained from work, stopped at the lodge. It would be well, he said, for them to throw a furrow about the place. He thought they had the fire checked, but the wind was growing, and one never could be sure.

There was no fishing that day. Evans worked through the brush plowing a strip about the property and the men remained close, ready for an emergency. The wind picked up.

The falling ashes grew to small, smoking brands. Buckets were filled and Evans stationed on the roof of the big house to watch for sparks that might mean real danger. The wind was a gale and carried heat.

The warden came back through the smoke, his car hung with tired, grimy men.

“The wind's got the best of us back yonder,” he said. “Got plenty of water for your buildings? We'll make a stand at your fire-break and the road here. We ought to be able to check it.

“Take the women out? Why, man, the country's afire on both sides of you. No. There's no danger if you sit tight; we've help enough for the work here.”

There was confusion and growing anxiety. An hour later they could hear the crackle of the fire as it licked toward them through the timber.

Tom and the doctor remained with the women while the other men joined the fire-fighters in the forest. When people spoke, they did so in loud voices.

Throughout all this, Beau sat in the doorway of Evans's cabin. He would thrust his nose low and look at figures as they hastened through the smoke; he would whine now and then; once when a brand, glowing and smoking, dropped before him he drew back, frightened at fire out of its place. He whined lowly as he watched it smolder.

 

TOM commenced to call for more water to quench brands that fell on the lodge roof; the excitement increased. Then the dog stiffened with interest, not at the shouting or activity about the house, but at a scurrying, rather unsteady small figure which ran through the smoke. It was Tom junior making for the gate as he had done so unsuccessfully many times before. Beau looked toward the house, expecting to see some one dart after the baby and thwart his purpose or else go with him, humoring the impulse that led the youngster afar. But none came; Tommy had slipped away.

Beau sat down whimpering. A half-hour passed, and then he heard a voice lifted, not in a shout of command, but in a cry of fright. It was Lola's voice, and she ran from the house calling:

“Tom, the baby's disappeared!”

Her husband half fell, half jumped from the roof. Then real confusion. Danger to the house was forgotten; there was running about, there was shrill calling, and the dog, infected by the tensity, joined the people at the house.

“He was sleeping,” Lola, in tears, explained. “He's gone—and where?”

She clung to her husband and he, white and shaken, was helpless to comfort her. They searched the place quickly, calling in voices that grew hoarse, and the terrier, following his master closely, inquiringly, mutely offering help, did his dog best to understand.

“If he's got into that—” the doctor began, looking into the rolling smoke, but did not finish, as though the possibility were too horrible for further words.

Tom Heddon stared wildly about. His eyes fell on the dog.

“Beau!” he choked, “Beau, where's baby?”

The dog looked hard into his face and waggled his whole hind parts; then, as Tom ran off, he started sharply, remembering.

 

SLOWLY he circled about, nose to the ground, sniffing, sneezing low and impatiently. His tail moved and stilled as he shoved his nose hard into the earth, one paw uplifted. He had it! He trotted on, stopped, swung back, sniffed again; went forward tentatively, then faster; then stiffened. With a yelp he raced back toward the house, leaping about his master, Lola and the doctor, barking in excitement, darting an excited tongue at their hands, as he did his best to convey his comforting news. But the distracted humans did not so interpret his demonstration. Instead Tom cried impatiently: “Get out, Beau!” And when the terrier persisted, he made a meanacing gesture.

That quieted the dog, who stood enthusiasm dying, perplexity growing. Then he trotted swiftly and silently toward the gate. They did not understand, he could not compel their attention. He hesitated. No, there was but one way.

He dropped his nose again and smelled and passed out of the enclosure, out into the murk; he was lost to sight in a moment, and sounds behind him dwindled.

He went to the left along the sandy trail, nose continually low, tail indicating his varying success. Now he went forward at a gallop, again he stopped and made small sharp circles. Once he lifted his head and blinking, stinging eyes, he listened a long interval.

On down the road, with the smoke biting into the delicate nerves of his nostrils, making it harder for him to pick the scent, hackels rising when he lost it, whimpering in delight when he found it again.

The air was hot and growing hotter. To his right sounded a popping, a snapping, a rising and failing mutter. He stopped suddenly and peered into the smoke screen. He saw a tongue of dull flame leap up, and, a moment later, another, nearer. The wind was rolling the fire through that undergrowth faster than he could walk.

Sight of it gave full life to a fear that had been dormant trough generations of breeding. Fire, out of place again! It drooped his tail, made him hesitate, as he stood there on three legs, his body swaying, between indecision to push on or to flee that thing. His upper lip drew back and he snarled sharply, twisting his head to summon rage that would override his fear. But the dread persisted; he did not want to face the thing which instinctively disturbed him.

But there beneath him was the faint scent of the runaway baby—the one with whom he had tried to share his bones, the one who had gone on into this fearful fire. They had suspected that he meant the youngster harm; they had failed to understand when, after all that he had suffered, he had offered his help moments before; and now the pride that had held him back for years, that had made him suffer because of the bad manners it had inspired, rose to its full strength. It was greater than the fear of fire, greater than his natural impulses. His snarling dropped to a whimper; not a cry of fright, but of eagerness; and shoving his muzzle again into the sand he resumed his way.

The fire crept closer to the road. It was harder to make his scent function. It became high pain to inhale that biting vapor, and that which he sought became fainter and fainter. Still he went on, at times turning his face to the right and snarling viciously at the creeping squadron of flames.

He sneezed and coughed; his tail no longer wagged, but was down; and he skulked along seeking to avoid the blistering draft that bore on him by keeping belly close to the ground. At times he was forced to use his nose to brush aside the powdery dirt before he could catch the scent, but he always found it; it always went on down the road, never ventured across the ruts.

 

AND then the dog stopped, turning half about as from a blow. The road veered to the right, toward the fire, and the flames had already crossed it!

There would be no scent there; he could go no farther. He backed, holding his head high, eyes squinted, working his mouth. The youngster had gone that way, he knew; the fire had followed.

And then his ears went up to catch a faint sound that had come to him above the noise of wind and flame. He cocked his head to listen and his whole body trembled as from cold. His ears twitched in effort; it came again, louder, between gusts of wind; and with a frenzied yelp, the terrier charged down the impossible road!

There was fire all about him. The sand was scorching hot and sprinkled, with brands that blazed. The air he breathed scalded throat and lungs, and those scattered brands which he trod upon as he went blindly forward seared his feet. The smell of his singeing hair was the only thing his nose could detect.

But somewhere down there, somewhere in that fire, the baby had cried; and Beau Brummel of Lancaster, who had been reared a gentleman, who had been suspected of treachery, had heard and his fighting pride was up! His eyes ran water and he could not see. He could feel the heat beating upon him from either side until it baked his very bones, and once, when the road went through a cut, he wallowed in flames until the pain of his blistering belly wrung a cry from him. But again he heard that sound, nearer, and yet again, and as the road swung to the left, freeing its one flank from fire, he saw with his tortured eyes. …

 

HANDS to his face, screaming shrilly, the baby ran forward, tendrils of flame licking at his garments, staggering in the loose sand, and as the terrier came abreast he stumbled and fell, face in the deep rut, and made no effort to rise, though hot smoke was within inches of his yellow head. He lay there screeching, beating his small fist into the earth.

The dog nuzzled him and barked and looked about, taking an instant to bite savagely his side, where flame had bitten before. He shoved his nose into the baby's neck and licked frantically; then yelped again, dancing about. Fire was scuttling through the dead grass right up to the road. Down yonder it was crossing! He bared his teeth at the oncoming menace and dived forward as if to fight it back.

Then he quieted. Tentatively, quite slowly, except for the frantic threshing of his tail, he fastened his teeth in the back of the child's stout denim suit, close to the neck. He worked cautiously for a hold that would not nip the flesh; he shut his jaws and growled and backed away and dragged the baby out of the road.

Tommy protested. He struck and kicked and screamed, but Beau did not desist. It was his forty-five pounds against the child's weight, almost as much as his own. He was weakened by the heat and smoke; that is, his body was weakened; his spirit had never been stronger.

A foot at a time—a yard or two. He had to hold the youngster's head high, he knew. It was the maximum test for his splendid neck and shoulder muscles; his feet slipped and slid on the slick, dry moss as he struggled with his load, and the fire was coming faster than he could walk!

The dog did not take the road. That went through, or at best paralleled, the fire. He struck away from it, his sense of direction leading him through the brush toward the lodge, angling away from the worst heat. But so slowly! His burned feet stung and smarted as he worked them furiously in the process. The clothing tore and he grappled for a fresh hold, snarling, eyes on the licking tongues that danced along, cutting down his lead. his neck became stiff and unresponsive from the racking strain. He backed, backed, backed, circling about stumps and tree clumps, so slowly, sacrificing so many precious inches. He coughed and choked and gagged, and his teeth were forced apart by the paroxysm. He snatched up his burden again as if it were a bone, with other dogs about. Through it all he growled frightfully, and his tail whipped back and forth.

His breath became a constant, hoarse sobbing. Where he had made yards he now made inches. He could no longer hold the child's weight from the ground. He bit and squatted and made his legs pull him backward, and the flames were coming faster than he could walk.

So they came upon him, and the game-warden held Tom Heddon back as, driven mad, he seized and swung a heavy oak limb to strike the terrier down.

“Man, he's not hurting him, he's saving him!” the warden cried, as he stooped. “See, he ain't hurt, his face ain't even scratched! There! He's crying again!”

Heddon, speechless, a-tremble with fright and relief, lifted his child, and the warden stooped to take the terrier's muzzle in his grim hands as Beau, worn to exhaustion, lay on his belly, tongue drooling.

“Old boy,” he said lowly, and that was enough. Dogs know: the warden was the sort who need never have spoken to him again. But he did say: “Without you this would have been hell itself!”

By the time the unhurt Tommy had sobbed himself to sleep the wind had swung to the northward, rain had drenched the country, and Windigo Lodge was safe.

 

SOME one lighted the logs in the fire-place. Others came down-stairs from the chamber where the child lay quiet, and gathered about the hearth. They were sitting there when Beau came in, his belly and one side plastered with grease the doctor had applied to ease the burns. He stood a moment in the open door and gaped. His ears were down, but not in apology for being there; that look of wonder and longing was gone. In spite of his burns, he seemed quite satisfied.

“Beau!” said Lola, and choked.

“Good dog!” grumbled the doctor, pushing his chair back. “Come in?”

Not a command; an invitation, such as he would have given a loved human. And Beau Brummel of Lancaster limped across the floor. He stood a moment sniffing Lola's hand and then, with a sigh, flung himself at their feet, well back from the warmth, but still on the hearth. His tongue lolled out happily, and his tail slapped the stones in languid content.

“He's come back to the hearthstone,” said the doctor. “Queer—the brain processes of these lower animals——”

“Lower?” said Tom Heddon. “Lower animals? And once I thought——”

He did not finish.