(1 (1 (1 
 
 IH= e FARRIER'S 
 DOG-AND-HIS 
 
 WILL-ALLEN 
 DROMGOOLE
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE FARRIER'S DOG 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FELLOW
 
 ; DO LOOK AT US, EVERYBODY ' " 
 See p. 10
 
 THE FARRIER'S DOG 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FELLOW 
 
 BY 
 
 WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 
 
 Illustrated by Amy M. Sacker 
 
 BOSTON 
 L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY 
 
 (IN-CORPORATBD) 
 1897
 
 Copyright, 7^97 
 
 BY L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY 
 (INCORPORATED) 
 
 Colonial 
 
 H. Simonds & Co., Boston, Mass., U. S. A,
 
 "PZ-7 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. THE Doc , 
 
 H. THE BOY 10 
 
 ILL THE THIEF'S DOG . . . . . . 17 
 
 IV. THE DOG'S MESSAGE 27 
 
 V. A VAGABOND 34 
 
 VI. THE FELLOW 43 
 
 VLL OLD ACQUAINTANCES ..... 54 
 
 VUL To THE GREEN HILLS ...... 66 
 
 661664
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PACK 
 
 " ' Do LOOK AT Us, EVERYBODY ' " . Frontispiece 
 
 BAYDAW AND THE FARRIER ..... 3 
 
 AT THE CIRCUS 15 
 
 THE STORY ......... 19 
 
 "A GROUP OF IDLE BOYS" ..... 35 
 
 "' WOMEN is so GOOD'" . . . . . . 41 
 
 " ' I RECKON WE'RE FELLOWS ' " . . . 49 
 
 "'Us " FELLOWS " Go HOME BY WAY OF THE 
 
 BAKER'S'" 57 
 
 "WILL You GIT Our '" 61 
 
 "HE'S THE ONLY FRIEND I'VE GOT'" ... 71
 
 Ed, &*I 
 
 A DEAR AND LOYAL FRIEXD
 
 THE FARRIER'S DOG 
 
 AND 
 
 HIS FELLOW 
 I. 
 
 THE DOG. 
 
 THE dog was a cur; a common yellow cur. 
 Though to be sure there were those who, know- 
 ing his good qualities, for really the cur was 
 possessed of some very good qualities indeed, 
 declared there was a strain of the shepherd in 
 his blood. This idea may have arisen from the 
 unmistakable crinkle in his big, bushy tail, 
 which (the crinkle I mean), later in life, won 
 for its owner the name of "Old Crink." At 
 the beginning, however, and before for love's 
 sake, or for sorrow's sake, he became a vaga- 
 bond (there are or have been men who have 
 done the same thing e'er this), the cur bore a
 
 2 THE FARRIERS DOG. 
 
 very different name. He was, in fact, called 
 " Baydaw " those first years of his life, when he 
 hung about the farrier's shop at the heels of the 
 boy who gave him his unusual name. Odd it 
 was, too, to see the big, brown, sooted farrier 
 bend over to lay his broad black palm upon the 
 yellow cur's neck caressingly, and to hear him 
 say, "Baydaw, boy? Poor Baydaw, poor boy," 
 for all the world so like the boy bad been used 
 to say it that, had you known them all, the boy, 
 the dog, and the farrier, you had but to close 
 your eyes and fancy it was the little boy who 
 was talking to the dog, not the big horse doctor 
 and blacksmith at all. There came a time when 
 the tears would start in the big farrier's eyes as 
 he stooped to caress the dog ; and he would in- 
 voluntarily look about him, over and behind the 
 big anvil, near the bellows, for the boy who had 
 been used to sit there. But there was no boy 
 there. Then it was the farrier would brush his 
 eyes with the least smutted corner of his apron 
 made of strong, striped bedticking, and tell the 
 cur to "go along now," in a tone that meant 
 his bone and bed were waiting over by the 
 slack tub under the shed outside. 
 
 But I am going too fast ; far too fast. Who-
 
 THE DOG. 3 
 
 ever told a story without beginning at the first ? 
 And the first must necessarily be the birth of 
 the hero ; and the hero of this story is a dog ; 
 at least he is one of the heroes ; the Fellow, who 
 is the other hero, we haven't come to him. Oh, 
 
 no ; the farrier was not the Fellow ; nor was the 
 little boy who named the dog " Baydaw." We 
 will come to the Fellow by and by; I knew 
 him, and I knew the dog ; sorry dogs, both of 
 them, some will tell ; yet they were both pos-
 
 4 THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 sessed of their "good strains in the blood," so 
 said those who knew them. 
 
 But about the little boy who was not the Fel- 
 low ; it was he who saved the dog's life. What 
 was the boy's name ? Oh, that doesn't matter 
 at all. I don't remember that I ever heard his 
 name. At any rate, it is not necessary here ; 
 he is in the story such a little, little while that 
 we will just call him "the boy." Though if 
 you have a dog, and love him, perhaps you will 
 sometimes think of the little boy who saved the 
 life of the farrier's dog. 
 
 It happened this way : One morning the far- 
 rier opened the door of his shop, and found a 
 litter of young dogs lying there upon the shop 
 floor. He wasn't a bad man, this big farrier, 
 neither was he a great lover of dogs. Of 
 course he could not have an entire family of 
 them housed upon him there in the shop. So 
 when the children around (the farrier had no 
 family of his own, poor, lonely old fellow !) had 
 set up a cry for them, he had very willingly let 
 them go ; all but one : there had chanced to be 
 one dog too many; and that dog was destined 
 for the mill-pond. Yes, the cur was to be 
 drowned. You see it was before the farrier
 
 THE DOG. 5 
 
 had made the acquaintance of the little boy 
 who saved the dog's life ; after that, he would 
 never have drowned a dog, no, not if there had 
 been a dozen of them found in the shop every 
 day. Thus is the influence of a child a very 
 great, a very wonderful thing indeed. It was 
 the morning that the farrier was carrying the 
 dog off to the pond that he made the acquaint- 
 ance of the boy. He was passing the big brick 
 house upon the hill, the new house that had 
 been built for the president of the mill com- 
 pany, who had moved into it only a few days 
 before. It was a morning in May, and the 
 windows of the house stood wide open ; lace 
 curtains floated from them, and beyond, on the 
 gleaming white walls, pictures rare and beauti- 
 ful might be seen, such as usually adorn the 
 homes of the rich. In the broad window- 
 seat a little boy was sitting; a pale, thin 
 little fellow with bright golden curls that lay 
 upon his shoulders, and made a sort of halo 
 about his pretty face. He was not a baby 
 quite, though a nurse stood beside him, and 
 held the slight figure safe with her strong 
 right arm. But he was very, very sick ; the 
 three years of his little life had been years
 
 6 THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 of such suffering that his growth had been 
 quite dwarfed ; so that he looked almost 
 a baby indeed, and could scarcely talk at 
 all. 
 
 When the bright eyes beheld the yellow ball 
 in the good farrier's arms he lifted his poor 
 little hands and called out, gaily : " Baydaw ; 
 baydaw ; " and his little mother, who under- 
 stood every blessed word the blessed baby 
 said, declared at once that he had said, 
 "baby's dog." Which was no doubt quite 
 true. 
 
 When the farrier passed on the baby still 
 called for the dog, pointing his little finger 
 after the retreating figure, and crying, " Bay- 
 daw, baydaw," with the big tears trembling 
 upon his cheeks. 
 
 " Go and call the man back," the mother said 
 to the nurse-maid ; and in a moment more the 
 big farrier, who, if he didn't love dogs, cer- 
 tainly did love children, was standing just out- 
 side the window cramming the baby arms with 
 the yellow ball that had been destined for 
 the mill-pond. The boy clapped his hands 
 and laughed, and called "Baydaw, baydaw," 
 stroking the while the soft fur as only dog
 
 THE DOG. 7 
 
 lovers can. The mother's eyes filled with 
 tears : 
 
 "It is the first thing he has noticed for 
 almost a year," she said ; and then turning to 
 the farrier : 
 
 " Would you sell it ? He has been very, 
 very sick for so long, and the puppy pleases 
 him." 
 
 The big, soft-hearted farrier drew his hand 
 across his eyes : 
 
 " Lord love you, ma'm, and he's more than 
 welcome to it," said he. "I was only just 
 going to drown it. And I say, ma'm," the 
 good farrier made bold to add, " what the little 
 one needs is the sunshine and the air. Maybe 
 you'll let the girl fetch him to see me at the 
 shop sometimes ? Sure now, and he's a pretty 
 baby ; a mighty pretty baby is he." 
 
 And that was how the farrier and the boy 
 became acquainted ; and that was how the boy 
 saved the dog's life. Afterward, the dog showed 
 his appreciation of the favor by saving the 
 boy's life once when he fell into the mill-pond, 
 the same mill-pond to which the cur had been 
 doomed. But that isn't in the story, so we'll 
 let it pass.
 
 8 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 The two were great friends from the very 
 first. The boy, romping about the yard with 
 his new friend, began to "mend," the farrier 
 called it at once. It was not long before the 
 nurse began to carry him down to the smithy 
 to see the farrier : at first, he only stayed a 
 little while, but soon the nurse would leave 
 him, and return for him just in time for dinner 
 at the big brick house. Sometimes the little 
 pale face bore the marks of the farrier's 
 hand, which had lingered caressingly upon the 
 pretty temples. Sometimes the dainty white 
 kilts would be decorated with the forge soot, 
 but nobody complained of such small things. 
 The boy was happy ; the big smith loved 
 him, and the soot was only a mark of af- 
 fection. 
 
 As the boy grew older (did I say he was 
 always followed by the dog ? Well, he was, 
 always) and began to grow strong, and to con- 
 verse with his big friend, the smith hunted up 
 an old anvil, and had it nicely cleaned, and 
 brought into the shop ; he placed it near the 
 forge, and, when the boy and dog came down for 
 their morning call, he would dust off the anvil 
 with a clean apron, and say to his visitor :
 
 THE DOG. 9 
 
 " There's your seat, sir, all waiting." 
 
 And the boy would smile and drop down 
 upon the smooth anvfl, and then call out to the 
 dog: 
 
 "Lie down, Baydaw: I think the smith is 
 going to tell us a story." 
 
 You see the dog kept the name the boy had 
 given him the day he was born, "Baydaw/" 
 which, the boy's mother said, meant "baby's 
 dog."
 
 II. 
 
 THE BOY. 
 
 IT was wonderful, the farrier declared, the 
 way in which the boy began to mend after 
 the dog began to keep him company. In a 
 very little while the two might be seen, the boy 
 and the dog, out on the lawn, under the big 
 trees, strolling side by side, or chasing a ball 
 over the grass, or rolled up together, fast asleep, 
 under a great, old white oak-tree. Then they 
 began to pay visits to the shop alone, with 
 the nurse-maid watching at the gate, until the 
 sooty old shop had received them into its big, 
 black door. They came together, alone, the 
 day the boy put on his first pantaloons. And 
 such a day as^ it was : why, the dog was every 
 whit as proud as the boy ; indeed he walked 
 down the village street at his young master's 
 side, with his crinkled tail hoisted over his back, 
 and his head carried in a way that said : " Do
 
 THE BOY. II 
 
 look at us, everybody ! We have on breeches ; 
 we are quite men to-day." And everybody did 
 look ; you may be sure of that. Everybody ran 
 to their doors, as though a circus might have 
 been passing; and everybody had something 
 pleasant to say ; a smile, and, " Lord love the 
 little one ; " for the village folk worked in the 
 mill for the most part, and were very fond of 
 the president's only son. But the greatest 
 commotion was when the two friends walked 
 into the blacksmith's shop. 
 
 The smith was just in the act of tempering 
 a bit of iron, when the tittle master called out, 
 gaily, from the doorway : 
 
 " Hello, Mr. Farrier ! HeDo, sir ! " 
 
 Then the farrier turned, and saw the boy, the 
 dog, and the first breeches, framed in by the big 
 door, waiting to be recognized. He dropped the 
 hammer upon the floor of the smithy and stared ; 
 for the life of him he couldn't think of any- 
 thing appropriate to say upon such a very 
 smart occasion, until, suddenly, he remembered 
 what day it was ; and then, remembering that, 
 and looking straight at the first breeches, he 
 said: 
 
 " Well ! if this ain't the glorious fourth ! "
 
 12 THE FARRIERS DOG. 
 
 The boy laughed softly ; he was very much 
 pleased at the farrier's surprise, and at the way 
 he had expressed it. He sauntered into the 
 shop, and took his seat on the bright old anvil 
 prepared for him, and began to enjoy his visit, 
 the dog lying at his feet. At first the silence 
 was a trifle embarrassing : the smith continued 
 to stare, and the boy smoothed the dog's back 
 with his small white hand. 
 
 " I'm glad you like them, Mr. Blacksmith," 
 said the boy after a while, with a conscious 
 glance at the ridiculous little bit of white linen 
 ending just above his tiny knee, and daring to 
 call itself a pair of breeches. 
 
 " Why, yes," said the farrier, " they look 
 uncommon well, uncommon well." 
 
 The boy blushed like a girl, and continued to 
 stroke the dog's back; he had never been so 
 embarrassed in all his little life, although he 
 felt so proud ; so very, very proud, indeed. As, 
 indeed, why shouldn't he ? To be sure, he 
 would never wear his first pantaloons for the 
 first time, again ; not in all his life, however 
 long it might be. Still, it was embarrassing ; 
 he stroked the dog's back and smiled. Sud- 
 denly his face lighted :
 
 THE BOY. 13 
 
 "This is a nice dog you have given me," 
 said he. " A very nice dog, sir." 
 
 "Glad you like him, sir," said the smith. 
 " He does look uncommon well now, walking 
 along in the company of them new breeches." 
 
 " And he has a nice tail," said the boy ; who 
 was rather more anxious to talk dog than he 
 was to talk breeches. " His tail has a nice 
 crinkle to it. I a/zva_ys liked his tail, farrier." 
 
 " Yes," said the farrier, " I believe you did." 
 
 Then there was another long silence; in 
 which the smith looked at the boy (a twinkle in 
 his eye), and the boy looked at his first breeches 
 (a smile in his eye), and the dog looked at them 
 both, as though he considered they were both 
 rather easily embarrassed about so very small 
 a matter. 
 
 " I always liked his tail," the boy repeated ; 
 and then there was more silence. Suddenly 
 the smith tossed his hammer aside, and brushed 
 away the iron that had been left to cool upon 
 the anvil : 
 
 " I say now," said he. " You ought to have 
 a holiday to-day ; you surely ought ; wearing 
 your first breeches, and all that. There's a 
 circus coming to town to-day, and I move that
 
 14 THE FARRIERS DOG. 
 
 we shut up the shop and take those new 
 breeches to see the show." 
 
 The boy bounded to his feet : 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Farrier," said he, "do you think 
 we might go ? And could Baydaw go along, 
 too ? He never saw a circus, and I am sure he 
 would like it." 
 
 "Why," said the smith, "he might, and wel- 
 come, but the rogues would steal him, like as 
 not." 
 
 " Oh," said the boy, " then we can't go. I'm 
 so sorry. I would like to see a circus." 
 
 " We might lock him up here in the shop 
 till we got back," said the smith ; but the boy 
 shook his head. 
 
 "I don't think," said he, "that we should 
 like to be parted to-day" 
 
 "Then," said the smith, "we'll fetch him 
 along, and take the risk. But you must be 
 sure to keep an eye upon him ; these circus 
 fellows are mighty bad about dogs, I have 
 always heard." 
 
 So with this understanding they went off for 
 a holiday, the first of many they took together. 
 It was the only way, the good farrier declared, 
 in which he could do proper respect to the first
 
 THE BOY. 15 
 
 breeches. They saw the lions and the royal 
 Bengal tiger, the camels, and the cinnamon bear 
 that kept time to the squeaky notes of a wheezy 
 flute. Then they saw a man climb a trapeze, a 
 thing any college boy can do better these days 
 
 of athletics ; and then they went outside and 
 had a watery lemonade, which the smith de- 
 clared was very like a Sunday school picnic, 
 " because they had forgotten to put any lemon 
 in the lemonade." And at every stop they
 
 1 6 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 made, and every treat he offered, the farrier 
 would ask : 
 
 " Will the new breeches have some of this ? " 
 Or, "Will the new breeches look at this?" 
 "Would the breeches like to see the bearded 
 woman ? " " Will the breeches take a peep at 
 the Queen of Sheba ? " " Would the breeches 
 like to see the Sleeping Beauty?" Thus im- 
 pressing upon the boy's mind that the great 
 day was in honor of the first pantaloons, and 
 that all courtesies extended were extended to 
 the breeches. In short, it was a kind of first 
 breeches celebration, as though any boy was 
 likely to forget the day he put on his first 
 breeches.
 
 III. 
 
 THE THIEF'S DOG. 
 
 OXE morning the boy sat on the anvil draw- 
 ing the dog's bushy tail between his palms. 
 
 " He has a nice tail," said he. " I always 
 liked his tail ; it has a nice crinkle to it." 
 
 The smith was busy at the forge and did not 
 reply at the moment. Suddenly the boy called 
 out in his clear little treble : 
 
 " Farrier," said he, " can you tell me why it 
 is a boy always likes a dog ? " 
 
 The farrier let go the bellows pump, and 
 rubbed his forehead with his long, smutty fore- 
 finger : 
 
 " Well, now," said he, to gain time, " is that a 
 riddle, or is it plain facts ? " 
 
 " No," said the boy, " that isn't a riddle ; it is 
 just a plain question." 
 
 "Well, then," said the smith, "it's because 
 
 7
 
 1 8 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 he can beat the dog when he feels like it, I'm 
 thinking." 
 
 The boy bounded to his feet and looked the 
 farrier squarely in the eye. "That isn't it at 
 all," said he. " You've guessed worse than I 
 ever thought you would. Why, sir, a boy loves 
 a dog because a dog always loves a boy ; if he 
 is half nice to him. I reckon it's easy to get a 
 dog to love you. Why, I have heard of dogs 
 that loved beggars, and bootblacks, and even 
 thieves." 
 
 "Sure," said the farrier, "and it's right you 
 are. Now, once. " he seized the bellows pump 
 again, and began pumping with all his might ; 
 he pumped away until the coals on the forge 
 were a good red glow before he opened his lips 
 for another word. The boy dropped back on 
 his old anvil and threw his arms about the dog's 
 neck with a delighted little chuckle. 
 
 " Lie down, Baydaw," said he. " I think the 
 farrier is going to tell us a story." 
 
 The farrier thrust a bar of iron into the heart 
 of the red coals, and while waiting for it to heat, 
 for the farrier never wasted time, not even in 
 telling stories, said : 
 
 " Now once, over in my town in No'th
 
 THE THIEF S DOG. IQ 
 
 Kelliny, there was a man, said to be the mean- 
 est man ever raised. Wouldn't anybody have 
 anything to do with him. Nobody knew where 
 he come from ; jest kind o* dropped down there, 
 as it were, and put up. Lived in a little house 
 
 at one end of the town. And they used to tell 
 on him that he was that mean the varmints in 
 that end o' town, sech as rats and mice, and 
 toad frogs, all got up and moved out when he 
 opened up there. They told awful tales about
 
 2O THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 him : wouldn't a boy in town pass that house 
 after dark if he could help it ; they didn't like 
 to pass in the daytime ; and when they jest 
 had to pass it, they went by in a pretty peart 
 trot, /can tell you." 
 
 " They ran ? " cried the boy. " Do you mean 
 to say they ran by the house, in the broad open 
 daylight ?" 
 
 The smith drew the red-hot bar from the 
 coals, and, holding it across the anvil, began to 
 tap it with his iron hammer : 
 
 Clink-clink-clinkety-clink ! 
 
 It was a great annoyance to the boy to have 
 the hammer continually interrupting conversa- 
 tion in this way, but the hammer had work to 
 do : the smith might idle away his time with a 
 boy and a dog, but as for the iron hammer 
 
 Clink-clink-clinkety-clink ! 
 
 At last the bar was in the coal bed again ; the 
 smith drew his sleeve across his brow, and began 
 at precisely the point at which he had left off 
 his story. That was one good thing about the 
 smith, the boy always said : " he never forget 
 where he left off'' 
 
 "They ran," said he, "as fast as their legs 
 could carry of them."
 
 THE THIEF S DOG. 21 
 
 "Did did you run, farrier?" said the boy, 
 anxiously watching the iron bar that would soon 
 be getting hot again. The farrier scratched his 
 head : he wished this one boy to think he was 
 not a coward ; had never been a coward ; yet 
 was he a truthful old farrier. 
 
 "Well, now," said he, "this here story is 
 about the thief : the thief and the other fellows ; 
 it isn't my story ; if it was my story " 
 
 " Oh ! " said the boy. And then 
 
 Clink-clink-cl inkety-clink. 
 
 The boy almost hated that industrious old 
 hammer. 
 
 Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. 
 
 " I'd tell it differ 1 nt ; " said the smith, begin- 
 ning again where he left off. " There was no- 
 body in the town could abide that man. He 
 was poor as a church mouse ; folks used to 
 wonder why he didn't starve to death. He 
 surely didn't have any way of getting an hon- 
 est living, they said. You see that is how bad 
 stories get a-going. If a man or a woman won't 
 work, people begin to wonder how they live. 
 Then they begin to talk, then to keep an eye 
 upon them, and first thing you know somebody 
 has lost a character. So they began to watch
 
 22 THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 this fellow I'm telling you about, and after 
 'while they began to say he stole. Then they 
 shunned him more than ever. And everything 
 that happened in that town they were pretty 
 apt to think he done it. That's another thing 
 you got to notice as you go along. When a 
 fellow gets a bad name, it accumulates a good 
 deal of dirt as it goes along." 
 
 " It what ? " said the boy. 
 
 "Why, it's this way. Give a man a bad 
 name and he'll be accused of everything bad 
 comes his way ; that's it. So they laid lots o' 
 things to the charge of this fellow in my town ; 
 and they got so they wouldn't so much as no- 
 tice him, let alone speak to him. And there 
 was some talk of driving him out of the town. 
 And one day 
 
 Clink-clink-clinkety-clink. 
 
 Oh, that hammer ! The boy wished the far- 
 rier would toss it out of the door with all his 
 might ; he knew it must fall squarely into the 
 slack tub at the door, if the smith should 
 fling it away. Then he laughed softly at the 
 thought of the big hammer flying out the shop 
 door, and of the good smith with nothing to 
 -do but to sit with his big hands folded all day.
 
 THE THIEF S DOG. 23 
 
 Then the little face grew grave again. There was 
 something awesome in the thought of the strong 
 hands folded idly all day. It must be a very 
 terrible thing, too, that would make the smith 
 throw away his hammer. He remembered once 
 seeing a man buried. It was his uncle, and he 
 was buried by some men who wore white aprons 
 and gloves. His father had told him that they 
 were " free masons," a great and good order of 
 men to which his uncle had belonged. And on 
 the lid of his uncle's coffin were laid an apron 
 and a pair of gloves too, like those the men 
 wore. When he asked his father about it he 
 had said, " He will not need them any more." 
 So, it seemed to him, it might be when his 
 good friend, the smith, should throw away his 
 hammer. 
 
 CUnk-clink-cUnkety-clink. 
 
 " A dog took up with him." The bar was 
 finished now, and the farrier finished the story 
 without further interruption from the hammer. 
 " One day a dog took up with him. It was an 
 ugly kind of a brute, and he must have been 
 pretty well starved all along; but somehow it 
 stuck to that fellow like as they'd been kind of 
 kin. Better, for a fellow's kin ain't always the
 
 24 THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 ones as sticks when a fellow's needy. But the 
 dog stuck ; 'stuck and starved,' the folks used 
 to say. Why, he'd snarl at a boy if he ran past 
 the house, and show his teeth if a body dared 
 to look over his shoulder doubtful like at the 
 dog's master. And once the fellow got sick 
 and nobody'd go nigh him but that dog. And 
 the critter actually stole for him. He stole the 
 victuals off the stove where the women-folks 
 was cooking, and sneaked the bread out of the 
 baker's window. And once, when he couldn't 
 find anything better, he stole a live hen and car- 
 ried it home in his mouth. 
 
 " They said the fellow was good to the dog, 
 in his way, though he must have had a hard lot, 
 even if he got no cuffing. The fellow got well 
 at last, thanks to the dog's keeping, and one 
 night he broke into a house, and he got shot 
 while trying to get out after the folks waked 
 and gave the alarm. And the town buried of 
 him, and was saying ' good riddance,' with just 
 one mourner to follow the old sexton, who 
 crammed the cheap pine coffin into the ground, 
 and threw the dirt over it. That mourner was 
 the dog. The last that town ever saw of him 
 was the day he followed the corporation's dead-
 
 THE THIEF'S DOG. 25 
 
 wagon out to the pauper graveyard. That is to 
 say, it was the last they ever saw of him in that 
 town. They saw him at the graveyard, months 
 afterwards ; just a little heap of white bones 
 lying across the old rogue's grave. Yes, sir; 
 it's curious how a dog will take to folks " 
 
 Clink the smith had taken up his hammer 
 and was trying it lightly, thoughtlessly, upon 
 the cold anvil. This set the boy to thinking, 
 and to asking questions. 
 
 " Farrier," said he, " do you think anything 
 could ever happen that would make you throw 
 your hammer away ? I've been thinking a good 
 deal about that while I was waiting between 
 times for the story you have been telling me. 
 It was a nice story, and I am much obliged to 
 you. I always like to hear stories about dogs. 
 And while I was waiting for this one, I got to 
 wondering if anything could make you throw 
 your hammer out the door. It would be sure 
 to fall in the slack tub, I think." 
 
 "Well, now," said the good smith, "it 
 would need to be something very dreadful, I'm 
 thinking," he rubbed the hammer's cold nose 
 with his palm, in a half caressing way, for a 
 good workman is always more or less fond of his
 
 26 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 faithful tools, " something very, very dreadful, 
 sir." 
 
 Yet, in less than six months 
 
 Clink-clink-clinkety-clink the smith was at 
 work again.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE DOG'S MESSAGE. 
 
 ONE morning the boy failed to come to the 
 shop, although the sun shone and the south 
 wind blew warm across the southern hills. 
 From time to time the farrier glanced at the 
 empty anvil where his friend was accustomed to 
 sit, with Baydaw at his feet, and wondered that 
 the place should seem so lonely. More than 
 once he went to the door, and stood under the 
 shed outside, his smutty hand before his eyes, 
 watching the street for his little friend and the 
 yellow dog. He even looked at the low iron 
 gate up the street to see if the nurse-maid's cap 
 might be visible while she stood watching the 
 young master. But, no ; there was no sign of 
 either friend or dog; and at noon the smith 
 shut the shop door and went back to doctor a 
 sick horse, and did not return all the day. 
 
 The next morning the boy again failed to
 
 28 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 make his appearance. The smith glanced at 
 the empty anvil time and again. More than 
 once he turned to speak to the boy who 
 "ought," he declared, "to be there." Finally 
 he crossed the shop, and jerking an old, cast- 
 off apron from a nail in the wall, he threw it 
 over the empty seat and went back to look after 
 a horseshoe he had left in the fire. 
 
 But, somehow, to-day the hammer didn't ring 
 to suit him. He tried it upon the glowing shoe, 
 then he tried it upon the anvil. Then suddenly 
 he lifted it above his' head, and tossed it from 
 him with such force that he sent it flying 
 through the door, where it circled three times 
 in the air, and fell with a soft little sizzling 
 squarely into the slack tub, and sank out of 
 sight. 
 
 But the farrier did not notice. He did not 
 even remember that he had told the little boy 
 that it must be a very dreadful thing that would 
 cause him to throw away his hammer. He was 
 too busy taking off, or trying to take off, his 
 apron. He had resolved to go up to the big 
 house of the president and ask what was the 
 matter. 
 
 As he gave the apron-strings a jerk, a shadow
 
 THE DOGS MESSAGE. 2Q 
 
 fell across the doorway, and something brushed 
 the good smith's legs. When he looked down 
 and saw the yellow cur Baydaw, he was so upset 
 that he jerked the apron-strings into such a 
 hopelessly hard knot that he had to cut them 
 apart by and by. 
 
 Baydaw rubbed his head against the smith's 
 legs and whined. The smith stooped, and took 
 from the dog's mouth the bit of white paper 
 which the boy's mother had folded into a note 
 and placed there. The farrier wasn't a scholar, 
 but he made out that his little friend was very 
 sick, and had sent for him to come up to the 
 house. He didn't stop to remove his apron, or 
 to get his hat from the nail, or to fasten the 
 shop door. Indeed, there were those who said 
 he even carried his hammer ; but how could he, 
 with the hammer at the bottom of the slack 
 tub ? He went, however, at once, his big form 
 followed up the hill by the dog who had been 
 sent to fetch him. 
 
 That noon, when the smith returned to the 
 shop, the first thing he did was to lift the empty 
 anvil that had been the boy's seat, and to heave 
 it out of the back door into a hole there, and 
 cover it over with leaves and earth, so that he
 
 3O THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 couldn't see it again. Though how could he 
 see anything, gruff old soft-heart that he was, 
 with the big tears blinding his eyes. 
 
 The little boy had been very, very sick. His 
 father had sat by his bed all the long night, 
 while his mother had knelt at the other side 
 praying. He had talked a good deal to them : 
 he was a very sensible little fellow, and very 
 loving and full of faith in his parents. At 
 nine o'clock in the morning the doctor told 
 them he was to have anything that he called 
 for. 
 
 " Nothing can hurt him now," the doctor had 
 said. And, hearing this, the boy had called out 
 in his pretty, clear voice : 
 
 " I should like to see my old friend the far- 
 rier, if you please, papa." 
 
 And so the farrier was sent for at once ; at 
 the boy's request they sent the dog to fetch 
 him, with the note the mother had written. 
 
 When the big, burly figure of the smith 
 appeared in the door, the boy held out his 
 little white hand and called to his friend : 
 
 " I've sent for you to give you back your 
 dog, farrier," said he; and the cur, as though 
 he understood, crept close to the bed's side, in
 
 THE DOGS MESSAGE. 3! 
 
 easy reach of the hand extended to stroke the 
 soft, silky fur. 
 
 " He is a nice dog, and I like him very much, 
 sir, and I've sent for you to give him back to 
 you." 
 
 " There, there now," said the farrier, " what- 
 ever am I to do with him, without you to keep 
 him out of the mill-pond ? " 
 
 The boy smiled ; he knew well that his dog 
 would never be in danger of the mill-pond 
 again. 
 
 "He is a nice dog, and he has a beautiful 
 tail. I always liked his tail, farrier." 
 
 "Sure, sir, I believe you always did," said 
 the farrier, "and I hope, sir, as you always 
 may." 
 
 The boy seemed not to be listening for a 
 moment, though the small hand continued to 
 stroke the cur's head : 
 
 " Baydaw ? " The dog started up, and licked 
 the tiny fingers. 
 
 " His tail has a beautiful crinkle," the voice 
 was low, and the words softly spoken; for 
 the boy's strength was almost spent. The 
 next moment he rallied, and asked them please 
 to send for his old friend the farrier; he was
 
 32 THE FARRIERS DOG. 
 
 quite sure the dog could bring him. The father 
 moved aside, and motioned the smith to stand 
 nearer the bed, and speak to the child. But 
 the boy saw him, and was the first to speak : 
 
 " Why, farrier," said he, " I thought you 
 were crying. It would be odd to see a black- 
 smith cry, I think." 
 
 " Very odd, sir," said the smith ; " very odd, 
 indeed. I misdoubts they don't cry very often, 
 sir." 
 
 " No," said the boy, " but mothers do. Mine 
 cried all night. You won't forget to take the 
 dog along with you, farrier? " 
 
 " Sure, sir, I'll keep him all right till you 
 come after him," said the smith. 
 
 " Oh, but I am going away," cried the boy. 
 "I shall not come to the shop again, because 
 I am going very far away. But mother says I 
 needn't be afraid at all, and I am not ; because 
 mother wouldn't tell me if it was not all right. 
 But I cannot take my dog, so I give him back 
 to you. Father, dear, give me your hand on 
 this side, please. And, come closer, farrier ; 
 I can't seem to see you. You'll keep the dog 
 for old times ? I can't come to your shop again, 
 but I'll not forget you, farrier."
 
 THE DOGS MESSAGE. 33 
 
 The big farrier did not reply : he could not 
 have said a word though life had hung upon his 
 speaking. He could only choke back the great 
 sob that rose in his throat, and put out his big, 
 grimy hand to feel for the dog's head. His 
 great fingers touched the tiny ones of the little 
 boy, who had grown into his big man's heart in 
 such a very little while. The little boy who had 
 taught him that even a dog may be a thing of 
 affectionate care. The small fingers scarcely 
 moved, though the lips did, ever so faintly : 
 
 " He has a nice tail. I always liked his tail 
 You will not forget, farrier?" 
 
 The farrier leaned over the bed to reply, but 
 drew back, with a low cry of pain, as though 
 something had hurt him. The little boy had 
 gone upon that long journey of which he had 
 said he was "not afraid,"
 
 V. 
 
 A VAGABOND. 
 
 IT was a day in August. A hot, sultry day, 
 when work was not to be thought of, and even 
 play was a burden. A group of idle boys sat 
 upon the curbstone of a pavement before the 
 door of the very last house of a street that led 
 into the heart of the city. The boys were not 
 plotting any great mischief ; they were only 
 idle, loafing about the street in mischief's way. 
 So, when mischief came in sight, they were not 
 slow to grasp it. They were talking of the 
 river a little further on, and of the swimming 
 there, and calculating, coolly, the ways and 
 means of getting there and back in sufficient 
 time to throw suspicion off their tracks, when 
 again they should confront their mothers. 
 
 There are some circumstances in which boys 
 of a certain class are ripe for any mischief they 
 may chance upon. The present was one of that 
 
 94
 
 A VAGABOND. 35 
 
 class of circumstances, and these boys were of 
 just that class. While they sat there on the curb- 
 stone, waiting, planning, a dog came into view. 
 A yellow, wobegone, weary looking dog, covered 
 with the dust and dirt of the road. There were 
 blood-stains upon his yellow jacket, and poor 
 dumb wounds that told without words the cruel 
 
 adventures of the highway. He had a fright- 
 ened, hang-dog look about him, too, and his red 
 tongue protruded from between his foam-flecked 
 jaws, as he panted for breath. Evidently, in 
 spite of his sorrows, the dog had made sport 
 somewhere for some cruel Philistines ; for his 
 once long, bushy tail was shaved, leaving it 
 quite clean of hair, except for the shaggy 
 bunch at the end. His body had been treated
 
 36 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 in the same way : it was quite smooth, except 
 for the big, shaggy mane around his neck. He 
 was a most comical looking dog, indeed, and a 
 still more comical looking lion. There was 
 a wild something in the furtive, frightened 
 glance that he shot here and there, as if mind- 
 ful of the chance stone ; or, it might be, the 
 friendly hand extended. 
 
 When the dog first came into view one of 
 the boys upon the curbstone bounded to his 
 feet, and shouted : 
 
 " A lion ! " 
 
 Instantly the others followed his lead ; there 
 was not a boy among them but recognised the 
 comical idea that had transformed the yellow 
 cur into the tawny lion. In an instant they 
 raised a cry, and the dog took to its heels, with 
 every boy after him. As they ran, each boy 
 seized a stone. At last the idle ones had 
 found something with which, to amuse them- 
 selves. They ran straight for the city, and, 
 before they had gone half a block, they were 
 joined by others, who grasped their stones like- 
 wise, and raised their cry. 
 
 People ran out of their houses to see what 
 was the matter, and a woman, seeing the hurry-
 
 A VAGABOND. 37 
 
 ing crowd, with a stray dog fleeing from its 
 missiles, rushed through her gate, and dragged 
 a little child in off the pavement. As she did 
 so, she unconsciously, without malice, shouted : 
 "Mad dog!" 
 
 That was quite enough ; the crowd doubled 
 in two minutes, and the poor, weary, homeless 
 cur was to make a last struggle for his life. 
 
 To the boys who had started the chase it was 
 such fun ; such fun for the boys ; such certain 
 death for the dog. 
 
 At one end of a particularly crowded business 
 street, a bootblack had a stand It wasn't a 
 particularly imposing stand ; merely a chair 
 which could be folded up and shoved into a 
 niche in the walls, a stool for customer's feet 
 to rest upon, a box, and some brushes. The 
 chair was elevated upon a small platform, that 
 had been a box ; one end of it still open. Into 
 this the bootblack sometimes thrust the imple- 
 ments of his profession when it rained, or when 
 he had occasion to run down the street a 
 moment. A lady sat in the bootblack's chair ; 
 she had stepped into a puddle, in crossing 
 the street, that the city sprinkler had made. 
 The bootblack wasn't accustomed to blacking
 
 38 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 the boots of women. He didn't know how to 
 manage their feet exactly ; and this was such 
 a small foot that it was quite lost in the palm 
 of his big hand. She wasn't a rich woman, evi- 
 dently ; just a thoroughly neat and cleanly one. 
 She wore a dress of the plainest gray serge, 
 and her gloves had been freshly darned. She 
 would, probably, walk home, to some distant 
 part of the suburbs, to save the car fare that 
 would go towards payment for the bootblacking. 
 Yet, there was that about her face, the look of 
 her eyes, and the shape of her mouth, that cor- 
 responded to that something in her character 
 which could not tolerate the muddy shoe, and 
 made the boy recognize the fact that she 
 was a gentlewoman, notwithstanding the plain 
 attire. 
 
 He took the small foot between his palms, 
 and began to brush. While at his task he 
 heard shouts, and, glancing up, he saw the 
 hurrying crowd of boys, and the flying stones 
 and sticks. " Now," said he, " I wonder what 
 them boys is a-chasin' of ; like as not it's a cat ; 
 or else a boy what's littler 'n they be, and can't 
 get out o' the way. I declare for it, boys is so 
 mean ; some boys."
 
 A VAGABOND. 39 
 
 The lady said nothing ; she was watching the 
 bootblack, whose gaze was fixed upon that 
 speck of flying yellow fur hurrying down the 
 street. 
 
 "I declare," he shouted, "if it ain't a dog 
 they're chasin'. Nothin' but a poor, lame cur. 
 Boys is so mean ; some boys." 
 
 The dog was limping now, but making all 
 possible haste. A flying stone had struck one 
 of his hind legs. The lady still said nothing ; 
 she was watching the bootblack, studying his 
 character it might be. The crowd came nearer ; 
 the shouts became more distinct ; there was but 
 one cry : 
 
 "Mad dog! hit him! kill him! Mad dog" 
 
 Suddenly the hunted, doomed thing lifted its 
 weary, dust-blinded eyes to the pavement, and 
 saw the boy and the woman. Instantly, as though 
 heaven itself had directed its steps, the cur es- 
 caped behind the legs of the men who had come 
 out to see what was the occasion of the uproar, 
 and darted into the open end of the box upon 
 which rested the bootblack's chair. The boy 
 gasped, and turned to the lady ; her eyes 
 were fixed upon his ; clearly, each was study- 
 ing the other. The study lasted but an in-
 
 4O THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 stant, and then the lady dropped the skirt of 
 her gray serge dress over the opening into 
 which the dog had disappeared. The boy 
 gasped again, and was about to speak; but 
 quickly the small, freshly darned glove touched 
 his arm : 
 
 "Do you just be quiet," said the strange 
 customer. "And now black that other boot, 
 and be quick ! " 
 
 The boy gave a low whistle ; he recognized 
 that they were fellow conspirators for the life 
 of the dog. The next moment he fell to work 
 blacking away for dear life, the very busiest 
 bootblack that ever plied a brush. And the 
 crowd, jeering, shouting, brandishing their sticks 
 and gathering their stones, passed on. They 
 had lost track of the dog. Neither had they 
 taken special notice of the industrious boy 
 blacking the boots of the Grossest lady ever 
 seen, if looks went for anything. They wouldn't 
 have dared speak to her, still less have dared 
 ask her to let them look under her skirts for a 
 runaway mad dog, a vagabond cur. They passed 
 on, suspecting nothing, and for the time the dog 
 was safe. When they were gone the lady said, 
 " That will do now," in her own pleasant voice,
 
 A VAGABOND. 
 
 and gave the boy a coin. The bootblack shook 
 his head ; somehow he still felt that they were 
 fellow plotters ; he could not think of charging 
 her anything. Besides, he had seen the gloves 
 with their fresh patches. 
 
 -"The boots was so little, ma'm," he said, 
 "they warn't worth nothin* nohows." 
 
 The lady smiled; her eyes were very soft 
 and tender now, and there was an unmistakable 
 mist in their blue depths. She knew this boy
 
 42 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 was poor, very, very poor ; and then there was 
 the cur under the box. 
 
 " What will you do with him ? " she asked, 
 making a little gesture downward. 
 
 The boy shook his head again. 
 
 " I dunno ; but I'll keep them there boys 
 off' n him, sure." 
 
 The mist was gathering in the lady's blue 
 eyes ; clearly she must get away. 
 
 " Well," said she, still holding out the coin, 
 " when that crowd of young ruffians is safely out 
 of sight, buy the dog a bone with that. You 
 may tell him it is his dinner, with my compli- 
 ments." 
 
 And before the boy could speak she was 
 gone, .and the bit of silver was lying upon the 
 seat of the chair which she had lately occupied. 
 The bootblack looked at it quizzically. 
 
 " Women is so good," he declared, as he 
 bent over his brushes ; " women is so good. 
 But boys is mean" he added indignantly. 
 "Boys is so mean ; some boys."
 
 VL 
 
 THE FELLOW. 
 
 THE bootblack argued wisely that he had 
 best let the dog be until sure the hunt for him 
 was over. 
 
 " It won't hurt him none to rest a bit, 111 be 
 bound," he told himself; "and then maybe 
 he'll eat his dinner, with the compliments of the 
 lady ; and 111 fetch him home with me to live." 
 
 There was a note of exultation in the boy's 
 voice ; all his life long he had wished for a dog. 
 He had been too poor ever to own one; but 
 now that one had actually come to him, made a 
 claim upon his humanity, as it were, he felt 
 that he had no choice but to adopt the stray. 
 Then, too, there was nobody whose permission 
 he had to obtain ; he was all alone in the world, 
 had always been so, so far as he knew. He 
 remembered that once when a little boy he had 
 run away from a family who claimed to have
 
 44 THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 picked him up on the streets, where he had 
 been deserted. They had treated him misera- 
 bly, and at last he had run away. Another 
 boy, a street gamin like himself, had instructed 
 him in the art of bootblacking, and had pre- 
 sented him with his own outfit when a farmer 
 had volunteered to give him work and a home 
 at his place in the country. The boy's business 
 was not a large one, but he had managed to 
 pay for a little room in a shanty at the end of a 
 quiet street in the rougher part of the city. 
 True, he had only a pallet there, but the room 
 was his own, the pallet big enough for two, and 
 the dog, "the other stray," he called it, was 
 welcome to share both with him. 
 
 The dog would doubtless go hungry many 
 times, but he would always have his part of the 
 pallet, that was certain ; and it was the best 
 the boy could do ; nobody can do more. 
 
 He wouldn't have invited a dog to come and 
 live with him on those terms, but if one chose 
 to come of his own accord, why, that was quite 
 another matter. 
 
 He couldn't quite feel, however, that the 
 dog's life was secure from the mob of boys who 
 had been chasing him. He felt that they would
 
 THE FELLOW. 45 
 
 come back to look for him ; indeed, they had 
 cast more than a passing glance at the big box 
 as they went by ; it was the presence of the 
 lady, and her very cross air, perhaps, that had 
 prevented their stopping to search. He was 
 right ; the boys had lost track of the dog, and 
 having lost him the men who had come out to 
 look on began to laugh at them, and to call out 
 to them to know where their mad dog had gone. 
 At last they determined to retrace their steps ; 
 the dog had clearly dodged, not escaped. They 
 went straight back to the bootblack. He was 
 busily cleaning his brushes when the leader of 
 the gang stopped to accost him : 
 
 " I say now, have you seen a dog?" 
 
 The bootblack looked up. 
 
 " Many's the one," said he. 
 
 The other boys began to laugh. 
 
 "I say now," said the first one, "have you 
 seen a stray ? A runaway dog pass this way ? " 
 
 " A mad dog, you better say," chirped in the 
 boy who had been the first to discover "the 
 lion " at the end of the street. 
 
 "Oh," said the bootblack, "you mean that 
 there ugly mad dog you was all runnin' after 
 awhile ago ? Is it him you've lost?"
 
 46 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 "Yes," they cried, "did he come this way?" 
 
 "You bet your life he did," said the boot- 
 black. " You ought to know that, you was all 
 followin' of him." 
 
 "But we lost him," said the leader. "We 
 lost him right along here. Which way did he 
 go ? " 
 
 The bootblack stepped to the edge of the 
 pavement and looked up the street. 
 
 " As nigh as I can make out," said he, " I 
 was busy at that time, but nigh as I can make 
 out, he come straight down that there street, 
 and he was headed for that way, fast as his 
 legs could carry him. I think he met his 
 friends somewhere down the street, and they 
 took him; anyhows I'd think you boys had 
 better mind how you gits to chasin' other peo- 
 ple's dogs; first thing you know, you'll find 
 yourselves in trouble." 
 
 "Shucks!" said one, "this was just a mad 
 dog. We're goin' to find him and kill him." 
 
 "Well," said the bootblack, "the last I seen 
 of him he was headed that there way," and the 
 bootblack pointed down the street. A moment, 
 and the crowd had disappeared, down street, 
 also, bent upon finding the unlucky vagabond
 
 THE FELLOW. 47 
 
 that was at that moment hidden safely in the 
 box of his new friend. 
 
 The boy let him be until noon. Then he 
 stepped down the street a little way and bought 
 some meat at a butcher's stall When he went 
 back he stooped down upon his knees to look 
 at his new companion. The dog was lying 
 stretched out upon the bottom of the box, still 
 too weary and bruised to stir. Such a dilapi- 
 dated dog, so torn and broken and covered with 
 dust and foam, you would have to look again, 
 and yet again, before you were ready to admit 
 that the poor, miserable stray was Baydaw, the 
 petted treasure of the little boy who died. 
 
 Yet it was he. What misfortune, what un- 
 lucky turn of fate had cast him out upon the 
 charity of the world ? And where was our good 
 friend, the farrier, who had promised to care for 
 the creature left him ? The bootblack knew 
 nothing of the cur's history, to be sure. He 
 only knew that he had stumbled upon a thing 
 in need, "a weary fellow creature," he called it, 
 and with a grace well becoming more lucky 
 mortals, he bowed his shoulders for the burden 
 misfortune had thrown in his path. He re- 
 mained upon his knees looking in at the tired
 
 48 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 creature, his own lonely heart going out with a 
 great pity for the friendless vagabond. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said he, coaxingly. " Poor 
 old fellow ; he's jist frazzled out, that's what 
 he is." 
 
 The quick instinct of the brute detected the 
 friendly tone in the voice. The shaggy head 
 was lifted, and the poor, dilapidated tail made a 
 feeble attempt to acknowledge the sympathy by 
 a friendly wag. 
 
 "There, there, now," said the boy, "come 
 out, can't you, and take a bite o' dinner ? The 
 lady said you was to, and them's her compli- 
 ments. Will you come out now ? " He was 
 talking to him as though he'd been a human 
 being. He always talked to the dog so, always 
 after that. He began it that first day, and he 
 always kept it up. It seemed as though the 
 dog understood, too, for with a great effort, and 
 after falling back more than once, he staggered 
 to his feet, and crept out upon the pavement. 
 Poor fellow, indeed. Poor, poor fellow. Could 
 this dilapidated thing be the fat, fortunate Bay- 
 daw ? Ah, farrier, how you have neglected 
 your trust ! The bootblack coaxed the dog off 
 to a corner, near by, and fed him the bits of
 
 THE FELLOW. 
 
 49 
 
 meat he had bought for him, talking the while 
 in a gentle, coaxing way, to which the poor tail 
 responded as gracefully as its tattered condition 
 would permit, 
 
 "Poor fellow," said the boy, "poor fellow; 
 he's a stray, too, that he is. Picked up oflfn 
 
 the streets, too, same as me. I reckon we're 
 like one 'nother ; no folks, no home, no nothin* ; 
 / reckon were fellows" 
 
 And right there, if you please, is where the 
 " Fellow " enters the story. The dog ate his 
 dinner greedily, if not gracefully, for he was 
 a hungry dog, indeed, and all the while the
 
 50 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 shaven tail was busy making acknowledg- 
 ments. 
 
 " I reckon a boy and a dog is most alike any- 
 how," said the bootblack ; " only there's this 
 difference : if a dog gits tired of it he can up 
 and die, but a boy he's got to fight it out 
 somehows." "It" meaning life, poor fellow. 
 " But we'll stand by one 'nother, I reckon, and 
 try to be real fellows, maybe ? " And the poor 
 tail made the proper acknowledgment. 
 
 "That's a nice tail," said the boy, and then 
 the dog looked up. There certainly was some- 
 thing familiar in that compliment. " Yes, sir, 
 that's a right nice tail, or would be if it was 
 let to grow out again. It's got a real crinkle 
 to it. Say, now ! I wonder if some little boy 
 somewhere ain't been sort o' fond o' you, any- 
 how ? " 
 
 Was it fancy, or did the big, dust-blinded 
 eyes look up knowingly ? Were there tears in 
 them ? Was the poor stray thinking of the 
 dear, dear little boy who had thought that such 
 a lovely crinkle ? Was he wondering where 
 the boy had gone ? Did he know that those 
 he had left behind would have spared them- 
 selves many luxuries to have at that moment
 
 THE FELLOW. 5! 
 
 possessed themselves of that same bushy tail 
 and its owner, dilapidated though he was ? 
 
 The stray lay under the box all the long hot 
 afternoon. At dark the bootblack stooped and 
 called to him softly : 
 
 " Crink ? " said he, " Crinkle, old boy ? It's 
 time we was a-gettin' home with us." 
 
 That night they lay on the pallet together, 
 the dog and his fellow. The bruises were 
 bound up, and the injured leg doctored a bit, 
 and then they had a bite of supper, and lay 
 down to rest. The dog curled up thankfully at 
 the Fellow's feet, safe from stones and sticks 
 and those other flls that follow the fortunes, 
 or misfortunes, of a stray. The bootblack had 
 never been so happy, the dog, perhaps, never 
 so gratefuL This was the first of their days 
 together, and a fair example of many that fol- 
 lowed. They were fast friends, and faithful. 
 Sometimes there was but a crust, but it was 
 conscientiously divided into two equal parts; 
 and once when the crust was quite too small to 
 think of dividing, the boy went supperless. 
 
 They had a hard lot, both of them ; for the 
 boy was miserably poor ; and then, strive as he 
 would to protect his friend, there were times
 
 52 THE FARRIERS DOG. 
 
 when the dog suffered from abuse. His first 
 enemies, the street boys, would not forget that 
 he was a stray, a vagabond. They felt priv- 
 ileged to abuse him. But, notwithstanding his 
 hard lot, the cur began after awhile to look 
 more like himself. His tail began to grow out, 
 and the old crinkle came back, more wavy, 
 more glossy, more bushy than ever. If only 
 he had not been so lean he would have been a 
 very nice looking dog indeed. His leanness 
 was deplorable; it was the result of starvation. 
 " Slow starvation," the bootblack said ; and 
 whenever he said it, and ran his fingers over 
 the dog's yellow coat and felt, the ribs sharp 
 and forbidding, he would fight the tears back 
 and " allow they'd have better luck another day." 
 
 " Anyhow, we're fellows," he would declare. 
 " We'll fight it out together. And if I go first, 
 or am like to, I'll send you off along ahead o' 
 me. But by an easy route, you may make sure 
 o' that. I won't leave you for the boys to 
 worry, that I won't." 
 
 It was a well-known thing to him that every 
 time the dog went out without his master he 
 was stoned or beaten ; and once he had come 
 back with a little patch of his skin burnt off,
 
 THE FELLOW. 53 
 
 where some hard-hearted cook had thrown hot 
 water upon him. 
 
 " Boys is mean," said the bootblack, when the 
 dog came in with his scald to be doctored ; 
 " boys is mean, some boys ; but they ain't nigh 
 so mean as cooks is." 
 
 Yes, they had rather a sorry time of it, those 
 two ; but they were happier for each other. 
 They were fellows, indeed, as the boy said ; 
 fellows in hunger, in homelessness, in cold, in 
 misfortune. And all the while they were get- 
 ting leaner, both of them, and less able to 
 "fight it out," as the boy expressed it. The 
 dog proved most valuable those days ; he car- 
 ried the bootblack's " tools " for him ; ran 
 errands right wisely, for a dog ; and when he 
 could dodge his tormentors, the street gamins, 
 he was upon the whole rather a happy dog. 
 But the boys continued to torment him ; they 
 called him "old Crink," because of the tail, and 
 he was getting to be quite famous in their cir- 
 cles as something to be " shied at," that is, 
 rocked. Yet he was faithful to his "fellow," 
 the boy who had rescued him. As he had 
 loved his first little master, so was he grateful 
 to his second.
 
 VII. 
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 
 
 ONE morning in spring, when the dog and 
 boy had been fellows for almost a twelve- 
 month, the bootblack sat down upon his own 
 empty chair, and thought over his prospects. 
 Things had never looked quite so bad. A boy 
 with a flaming new outfit had opened up a stand 
 at the next corner. His own customers were 
 all stopping there. His chair hadn't had an 
 occupant now for three days, except such as 
 the boy had taken for charity. His rent would 
 soon be falling due, there wasn't a crust in his 
 cupboard. 
 
 " See here, now," said he, in a way he had of 
 talking to himself, " see here, now, first thing 
 we know that there dog will starve." He was 
 thinking of the dog, poor fellow, not of himself. 
 And as though his thought might have been a 
 prayer (they very often are, I think), and an
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 55 
 
 answer had been sent at once, at that very 
 moment a gentleman came down the street and 
 stopped. 
 
 " Hello," said he, " busy ? " 
 
 "Busy doin' nothin'," said the boy, as he 
 darted down and offered the chair to the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " Shine, sir?" 
 
 He brushed away industriously, and so care- 
 fully that the man took note of him after awhile, 
 and of the yellow cur lying near by intently 
 watching the operation, as though he under- 
 stood a bite of beef was coming nearer and 
 nearer with every movement of his good Fel- 
 low's arm. 
 
 " Is that your dog ?" said the stranger. 
 
 " That ? " said the Fellow, " why that's my 
 pardner, sir," with very honest pride in the 
 statement. 
 
 " Your partner, eh ? And where did you pick 
 him up ? " 
 
 " Right there on that idintical spot where 
 he's a-layin'," was the reply. " I sort of ris- 
 cued him from the mob, so to speak. If you 
 doubts it, ask him. He's a nice dog, if the 
 boys would let him be. But boys is mean ;
 
 56 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 some boys. Now, I tell you, a good dog is 
 better company than a bad boy, times out o' 
 mind. They worries that dog a-mighty nigh to 
 death, jist because he's a stray, and nobody 
 to have 'em up about it. That's the way boys 
 is, some boys. Crink there knows, don't you, 
 son ? " The dog looked and wagged his bushy 
 tail. 
 
 "We're fellows," the boy went on. "That 
 there dog and me are fellows ; we's both had a 
 tolerable steep hill to climb. He's got sense, 
 though, I tell you. He knows this here shine 
 means beef for supper, hey, Crink ? " 
 
 They talked on until the boots had been care- 
 fully polished : the customer hadn't said much, 
 just enough to make the bootblack talk. He 
 liked the boy, somehow. So when this new 
 acquaintance left the chair he put a half dollar 
 in the boy's hand. 
 
 " Never mind now about the change," said 
 he, " but go and spend every cent of it for a 
 supper for you you 'fellows.' " He pointed 
 to the dog, and before the astonished bootblack 
 had recovered his breath the man was gone. 
 Then the boy turned to the dog : 
 
 "Never you mind, son," said he, "when this
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 57 
 
 day's work is done, and us 'fellows' go home by 
 way of the baker's and butcher's yum ! yum ! " 
 But when the day was over, and they started 
 home, the boy was not pleased to see a big, 
 brawny stranger dogging their footsteps. He 
 
 turned into several by-streets, in order to make 
 perfectly sure the strange man was following 
 him ; yes, it was quite clear ; there could be 
 no mistake about it. When he stopped at the 
 baker's and looked over his shoulder, there the
 
 58 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 man was, so near that he hurried off without 
 the bread he had come to buy. The same thing 
 was repeated at the butcher's. The bootblack 
 was almost frightened. 
 
 " This won't do," said he to the dog. "That 
 there man knows about that there fifty cents. 
 Us fellows has got to dodge." 
 
 Yet, dodge as they would, and did, when they 
 reached home, there was the big stranger close 
 behind them. The boy went in, the dog at his 
 heels, and drew the door fast behind him. 
 
 "There's the money," said he, laying it upon 
 the table. "He can have it, if he's half as 
 hungry as we've been this day, Crink. But I 
 misdoubts it's the money he's wantin'. Here, 
 sir, you creep right under there." The dog 
 crept behind a box in the corner, and the boy 
 threw over him the clothes that had made their 
 common bed. He had scarcely done so when a 
 knock sounded upon the door. It was a loud 
 knock, as though made by a strong hand. He 
 went at once and opened the door. Just as he 
 thought, there stood the man who had been 
 following him. He was a big, brown fellow, 
 and wore a suit of country jeans. His face was 
 tanned, and his beard long and bushy ; yet, to
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 59 
 
 the bootblack's keen eye something appeared 
 that was not cruelty, by any means. Still, he 
 considered, it might be as well to be cautious. 
 He put on his very bravest air as he demanded : 
 
 "Well, now, what's wanted here?" 
 
 The visitor pushed his hat back, and mopped 
 his brow, trying the while to peep into the room. 
 The boy was as determined that he should not 
 do so as the man was to see. 
 
 " Have you," said he, hesitating, " have you 
 seen a a dog ? " 
 
 " Many's the one, pard," said the bootblack, 
 as bravely as he could ; for somehow he in- 
 stinctively felt that, at last, the parting, which 
 he had ever feared must sooner or later come, 
 was at hand. His heart was thumping like a 
 sledge-hammer, though he stood bravely in the 
 doorway, a hand on either lintel, watching the 
 face of the man before him. 
 
 " I mean," said the stranger, " or, I thought, 
 well, I was hunting for a dog, and I thought 
 he ran in here." 
 
 " Thoughts killed a cat, once't," said the boy, 
 bravely again; although his heart thumped 
 against his ribs till it hurt him. "Thoughts 
 killed a cat ; and now, seeing the dog didn't
 
 60 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 run in " (indeed he had walked quite soberly in), 
 " s'posin' you walk out." 
 
 The man had edged himself quite well into 
 the room. He was looking eagerly about the 
 shabby little den, a tender look in his big, sad 
 eyes, which the bootblack couldn't quite see, 
 because of the broad hat he wore, and the gath- 
 ering gloom of the evening. 
 
 " Say, now," said the boy, " didn't I tell you 
 as your dog wasn't here ? Will you git out now, 
 you 
 
 " Baydaw ? " said the man, softly, " Baydaw ? 
 I was so sure I saw him." 
 
 "But I tell you, no," said the boy. "Will 
 you git out 
 
 And just here that graceless, seemingly 
 thankless cur had the ingratitude to run out 
 deliberately from his hiding-place, and, with 
 a low whine, to crouch at the stranger's feet, 
 and begin to try to lick his hand. 
 
 The man lifted his arm. 
 
 " Don't you tetch him ! " The bootblack was 
 almost at the stranger's throat. " Don't you 
 dare to hit him, you, else I'll fight you, if I git 
 my head broke. Don't you lay a finger to him. 
 He ain't had nothin' but licks, and bruises, and
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 
 
 6l 
 
 scaldin's ; and, if you've come here to worrit 
 him, you'd best git out afore I bust your head 
 for you, and don't you furgit it, nuther." 
 
 He was crying ; crying aloud, not in a shamed 
 way at all ; he was weak and faint with hunger, 
 
 and this cur was all that he had. He wasn't at 
 all ashamed of his tears ; though, if he had not 
 been crying, perhaps he might have seen that 
 the man was softly patting the head of the poor 
 stray, and was calling him " Baydaw," in a
 
 62 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 tender way, and that the cur was whimpering 
 delighted recognition in true dog fashion. 
 
 " He ain't got no friends," the boy said, bro- 
 kenly, between his sobs; "he ain't got nobody 
 but jist me ; but danged if I don't stand to 
 him. There ! and there." 
 
 He was pounding the great shoulders stooped 
 over the stray in right royal defence. 
 
 The man had not spoken to the boy since the 
 dog's appearance from under the bedclothes ; 
 but now he straightened himself up, and took 
 the Fellow's arm in his strong grasp, and held it. 
 
 " See here, now, sonny," said he, " I wouldn't 
 hit that dog, nor abuse it, not for all the money 
 in this here town, ^nd I reckon there's consid- 
 er'ble. You listen to me a minute ; let me come 
 in and talk to you, after I've I've seen 
 hint. 
 
 And, without waiting for further permission, 
 the farrier, for it was the farrier, went in, and 
 seated himself upon the box behind which the 
 dog had been hiding. He didn't say anything 
 at first, but just stroked the dog's head, and 
 sighed, and listened to the boy sobbing. Then, 
 when the sound of the sobs had ceased, he 
 began to talk.
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 63 
 
 " I'm mighty glad to find him," said he. " I 
 reckon I've a-mighty nigh hunted the state over 
 for him. Baydaw, old boy, we'll be goin' home, 
 now." 
 
 " No, you won't," said the bootblack. " He's 
 ray dog, now. I rescued him. They was about 
 to kill him, and he was crippled, and lame, and 
 hurt all over; and he run to me, and I rescued 
 him, and he's mine" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the farrier ; " he's yours, if 
 you claim him." And all the while, through 
 the good farrier's brain was running a text, 
 something about "naked, and ye took me in, 
 hungry, and ye fed me," and he was vaguely 
 wondering if it wouldn't apply to dogs, too, 
 since they were creatures of God's creating. 
 "He's yours, if you claim him, sonny ; but wait 
 till I tell you about the little boy that owned 
 him, and that loved him mightily, and that sent 
 for me when he was a-dyin', and told me to 
 take care of him. And of the folks back there, 
 the little fellow's folks, that would give a lot to 
 get hold of him, they loved him so for the little 
 fellow's having loved him, and how anxious they 
 be to have him back, and, then, if you say you 
 want to keep him, I'll say no more."
 
 64 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 The bootblack was listening intently ; he had 
 always believed the dog had been a pet, it had 
 responded so readily to that first word of sym- 
 pathy. Still, he wasn't ready to part with 
 him. 
 
 " If he was left to your care," said he, " how 
 come he was runnin' wild over the country, 
 starved like, and with his hair all shaved off, 
 and the boys rockin' of him, and callin' of him 
 'mad dog?' Seems like you wasn't takin' such 
 mighty good care of him then." 
 
 The farrier sighed. 
 
 "See here, now," said he, "you haven't had 
 your supper yet, and neither has the dog. You 
 both come with me. After we've had supper 
 I'm coming back here, and tell you all about 
 it, and then I'm a-goin' to leave you be till 
 to-morrow. You may think about it to-night, 
 after I've told you, and to-morrow we'll see 
 what you think. You're to do just as you 
 please about it ; because you have got a claim : 
 you took him in and keered for him. You 
 saved his life. It ain't the first time it's been 
 saved, but it gives you a claim, and I mean to 
 respect it. Come, now." 
 
 The boy looked up :
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCES. 6$ 
 
 " He's all I've got," said he. " He's all the 
 friend I've got in the world ; him and me was 
 was sort o' fellows" 
 
 And the farrier could scarcely carry the boy 
 off to his supper for the tears that blinded his 
 eyes.
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO THE GREEN HILLS. 
 
 IT was a great pity the bootblack had not 
 much appetite that evening, for it was a goodly 
 meal the farrier ordered at the little restaurant 
 around the corner of a quiet street not far 
 away. There were mealy potatoes and fresh 
 yellow butter, and a steaming steak with savory 
 onions, and a pudding. But somehow the boy's 
 hunger was gone. Baydaw, as we must call 
 him again, sat on his haunches, between the 
 two, watching with happy eyes first one and 
 then the other, and wagging his tail whenever 
 his old master put out his hand to stroke his 
 yellow coat. The farrier did most of the talk- 
 ing. The boy watched him, much the same as 
 he had watched the little lady in gray who had 
 helped him to rescue the dog that day in 
 August. He was a fine judge of faces ; and a 
 man's manner soon opened the lad's eyes as to
 
 TO THE GREEX HILLS. 6? 
 
 the manner of the man's character. He was 
 not long in making out, in a perfectly satisfac- 
 tory way to his own mind, that the farrier 
 " -would do^ The knowledge gave him a great 
 heartache, however; for with it came also the 
 reflection that he ought honestly to turn the 
 dog over to his proper owner. 
 
 When the meal was finished, and the boot- 
 black had gathered up a bountiful repast for 
 the dog, the two went back to the little house 
 that had made a pretense of a home for the 
 bootblack. 
 
 "Don't light your candle yet," said the 
 smith. "It is a fine moonlight, and well just 
 sit here in the door and talk a bit." 
 
 So they did ; though it was the farrier who 
 did most of the talking. 
 
 "Now that there dog," said he, "come 
 a-mighty nigh a-bein* drowned once't," and then 
 he told the story of the little boy who had inter- 
 ceded in the cur's behalf. He told all about 
 the visits to the shop, all about his own lonely 
 life, his house that had neither wife nor chil- 
 dren to make it glad, and how the dog had been 
 like a human being for company after the little 
 boy went away.
 
 68 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 " He give it to me," said he. " He sent for 
 me when he was dyin' and give it back to me ; 
 because he allowed as I'd be good to it, and 
 love it because it had been his dog. And I 
 meant to, Lord love you, I meant to. But you 
 see it was this way." 
 
 Then he told how he was called away one 
 morning to see a sick brother at a little town 
 two miles distant, how the brother died, and he 
 himself was taken sick with the same disease, 
 and did not know his name for two whole 
 weeks. And how the dog had been left at 
 home guarding the shop ; how he must have 
 waited and waited, almost have starved to 
 death ; for the big house on the hill was closed, 
 and the owners gone away, else he had been 
 looked after. And how, at last, he must have 
 left and wandered on until he came to the town 
 where the bootblack had rescued him from the 
 mob of boys. Then he told of the pleasant 
 village in which he lived, and of the beautiful 
 country around. " Green hills that look down 
 upon the blooming valleys, and rivers that flow 
 right along," said he. 
 
 "Rivers that flow right along;" the boot- 
 black, born and brought up in the city's dusty
 
 TO THE GREEX HILLS. 69 
 
 heart, had heard of them, the beautiful rivers, 
 and the green hills that looked down upon 
 them; he had heard of them dreamed of 
 them sometimes, upon his pallet of old rags, or 
 in his empty chair on the pavement, in the hot 
 sun of a summer's day. Dreamed of these 
 beautiful things that a dog might have, but not 
 a boy alas for it ! 
 
 " He's the only friend I've got," he said, 
 when they had sat silent a moment, each face 
 showing distinct in the moonlight, the dog 
 curled up at their feet, unconscious that his 
 own destiny was being swung in the balance. 
 
 " He's the only friend I've got, that there 
 dog is, and we're fellows. Him and me is 
 fellows ; we ain't got nobody but jist one 
 'nother ; least, / ain't." There was a silence 
 again ; then the boy said : " They'll be good 
 to him, them there folks o' the little kid's ? " 
 
 "Good? They'd give a hundred dollars to 
 have him in their kennel this minute, they 
 would," said the smith. 
 
 " It seems," said the bootblack, " as though 
 some o' his folks had died, and left him a lump. 
 I heard of a boy like that once ; but I never 
 knowed if 'twas true. Such a thing don't
 
 /O THE FARRIER S DOG. 
 
 happen often, I reckin. And now it has hap- 
 pened to a dog. I'd ought to let him go, I 
 know. The boys rock him, and he don't git 
 enough to eat always. And it's hot, mighty 
 hot, here. And there ain't no 'rivers that flow,' 
 and all that. And I reckin I don't deserve him 
 nohow ; because once I didn't divide fair when 
 we was both hungry. I took half a pone more'n 
 I give him, I was that hungry. And there 
 he'll git enough, always enough to eat, and 
 a good bed to sleep in. Maybe the crink'll 
 come back to his tail real good. I'd ought to 
 let him go 
 
 He was silent, watching the moonlight where 
 it fell upon a heap of rubbish, old glass, ashes, 
 and tin cans. How they glimmered and shone ; 
 yet he knew that in the daylight the sun made 
 that heap a sickening thing; hot, and full of 
 unhealthy odors. * 
 
 11 You're to do just as you like," said the 
 farrier, as though he didn't know, from the 
 moment he looked into the boy's face, just what 
 he would do. There are some open faces, like 
 the boy's, behind which there is always an hon- 
 est, unselfish heart, you may be sure of that. 
 
 The boy didn't notice the interruption. He
 
 THK OJH.Y FHKXD I'VE GOT.
 
 TO THE GREEX HILLS. 73 
 
 was making comparisons : here was a rubbish 
 heap, the hot sun in summer, and the biting 
 wind in winter, the empty cupboard, the dry 
 crust, the rocks, and the taunts of the street 
 gamins. Yonder, where he might go, this good 
 dog of his, was food in plenty, a bed, and some- 
 how, it rang in his ears, what the farrier had 
 said about the hills and the rivers : " the rivers 
 that flow right along." 
 
 " He's the only friend I've got ; and we 
 are fellows." 
 
 The bootblack buried his little face in his 
 arms, crossed upon his knees. 
 
 "There, there, then," said the farrier, "well 
 say no more about it. If you're fond of him 
 you'll do the best you can by him, and I reckon 
 the little one would be satisfied if he knew; 
 maybe he does know ; it ain't for me to say." 
 
 The bootblack rifted his head. He was a 
 lonely little fellow ; he had always been lonely. 
 In all his poor little life he had never had any- 
 thing to love until this yellow cur had drifted 
 into his life upon the waters of misfortune. 
 Alas for it ! that struggling humanity, innocent 
 childhood, should be reduced to the love of a 
 dog.
 
 74 THE FARRIER'S DOG. 
 
 The boy straightened himself, and looked the 
 farrier in the eye : 
 
 "I ain't the boy," said he, "to keep a good 
 dog out of a good home. You take him along. 
 Maybe the little kid what loved him does know 
 about it. If he does, I'd like him to know I 
 give him up for his good. You take him 
 along." 
 
 The farrier rose, and shook himself, and 
 called to the dog stretched out in the silver 
 moonlight : 
 
 " Baydaw, come, sir!" The dog rose, and 
 shook himself. The boy rose, too : there was 
 going to be a parting. The boy didn't like that. 
 He turned his back, and, without looking at his 
 old friend, he said that the farrier could just go 
 out that other door, and he reckoned the dog 
 would follow. 
 
 He did so. He understood that the boy did 
 not want to have a scene, and he thought him- 
 self that was the best thing to do. 
 
 " I reckon now," he told himself, as he passed 
 down the pavement, with Baydaw at his heels, 
 " I reckon now I'm making a great goose of 
 myself over a dog." He turned, and looked 
 back. The boy was standing where he had left
 
 TO THE GREEN HIT. IS 7$ 
 
 him, a lonely little figure in the great waste of 
 the city, the boy who had rescued the dog. He 
 wondered if some day some good heart would 
 not come along that way and rescue the boy. 
 Then the good farrier stopped : there was an 
 empty chair at his place, there was always din- 
 ner enough for two, there was a bed that no- 
 body occupied, and the old shop would be less 
 dreary for a young face to shine there. There 
 are many, many young faces in the city, faces 
 that might shine in the old shop, but that would 
 grow hard and grimy with the sin of the city. 
 One less would never be noticed, but what a 
 difference it would make to the owner of the 
 face. The good farrier looked again at the des- 
 olate little figure standing before the open door 
 in the moonlight. Then he strode swiftly back, 
 and confronted the astonished boy : 
 
 " I say, there ; dang it all ! you come, too." 
 And, an hour later, they three started for the 
 green nflls, and the rivers that flow right along : 
 the farrier, the dog, and his fellow.
 
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