Dumb- Bell 
 of Brookfield
 
 . OF CALIF. LWRARY, LO

 
 Dumb-Bell 
 of Brookfield 
 
 BY 
 
 John Taintor Foote 
 
 Author of "The Look of Eagles" 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 D. Appleton and Company 
 
 New York London 
 
 1917 

 
 COPTBIQBT, 1917, BT 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 Copyright, 1015, 1016, by the Phillips Publishing Company 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 To 
 A. C. F. 
 
 2129655
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE RUNT 3 
 
 II. A RELUCTANT TRAVELER ... 59 
 
 III. DUMB-BELL'S CHECK .... 97 
 
 IV. A PERMANENT INTRUDER . . . 143 
 
 V. DUMB-BELL'S GUEST .... 175 
 
 VI, ORDERED ON 221
 
 THE RUNT
 
 
 
 THE RUNT 
 
 rjlHE king sat on his throne and 
 blinked at the sunlight streaming 
 through the French window. His eyes 
 were pools of liquid amber filled with a 
 brooding dignity, and kind beyond ex- 
 pression. His throne was a big leather 
 chair, worn and slouchy, that stood in 
 the bay window of the Brookfield living- 
 room. He had slept there all night, and 
 it was time for a maid to come, open the 
 French window, and let him out into 
 the dew-washed rose garden. 
 
 The king was old. He had seized the 
 
 throne years before. He had been put 
 
 on the train one day, with nothing but his 
 
 pedigree and a prayer. He had come 
 
 3
 
 Dumb "Bell of Brookfield 
 
 home, six months later, champion of 
 champions, greatest field trial setter of 
 his time, lion-hearted defender of the 
 honor of Brookfield. 
 
 He never saw the inside of the kennels 
 again. He had been given humbly the 
 freedom of the house. After due sniff- 
 ings at one place and another he had 
 taken the leather chair for his own. From 
 then on visitors were asked to sit else- 
 where, if they didn't mind, because he 
 might want his chair, and he was Cham- 
 pion Brookfield Roderigo. 
 
 So now the king sat on his throne, or 
 rather lay curled up in it, with his long, 
 deep muzzle resting on his paws. At the 
 end of that muzzle was a nose. A nose 
 uncanny in its swift certainty. A nose 
 which had allowed him to go down wind, 
 running like fire, stiffen in the middle of 
 one of his effortless bounds, twist himself 
 4
 
 The Runt 
 
 in the air, and light rigid at a bevy a hun- 
 dred feet away. He had done this again 
 and again when only a "derby." He had 
 done it in the National Championship un- 
 til hard-riding men, galloping behind him, 
 had yelled like boys, and Judge Beldon, 
 mad beyond all ethics, had called across 
 to another judge, "The dog never lived 
 that could beat him, Tom !" 
 
 This was a flagrant breach of form. 
 It was unpardonable for a field trial 
 judge to indicate his choice before the of- 
 ficial vote. That night Judge Beldon 
 apologized to the owner of the pointer, 
 Rip Rap Messenger, who was running 
 with, or rather far behind, the king at the 
 time. 
 
 But the owner of the pointer only said : 
 "Forget it, Judge! Why, I was as crazy 
 as any of you. Man, oh, man, ain't he 
 some dog!" 
 
 5
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 All this was long ago. It was no longer 
 part of the king's life, and he was not 
 thinking of those triumphant days of his 
 youth. He wondered how soon the maid 
 would come and let him out. Once in the 
 garden he might find a toad under a rose- 
 bush at which to paw tentatively. Per- 
 haps he would dig up the piece of dog 
 cake he had buried in the black earth near 
 the sundial. And there was that mole the 
 terrier had killed, it was certainly worth 
 a sniff or two. No doubt a gardener had 
 removed it by this time, though . . . 
 meddlesome things, gardeners an un- 
 guarded bone was scarcely safe a mo- 
 ment when one of them was about! 
 
 Where was that maid? Why didn't 
 she come? Perhaps he had better take 
 a little nap. He closed his eyes. . . . 
 He never opened them again. The heart 
 that had pumped so stanch a beat for 
 6
 
 The Runt 
 
 Brookfield decided to pump no more. A 
 shudder passed over the king's body . . . 
 then it was still. 
 
 The maid came presently and called 
 his name. When he didn't stir she went 
 to the leather chair and looked, her eyes 
 growing wide. She hurried from the 
 room and up the stairs. 
 
 "Mister Gregory, sir," she panted at a 
 door, "won't you come down, please? 
 Roderigo he don't move. He don't 
 move at all, sir!" 
 
 She was beside the chair again when 
 the master of Brookfield arrived in his 
 dressing gown. 
 
 "He don't move " she repeated. 
 
 The master of Brookfield put his hand 
 on the king's head. He slid his other 
 hand under the king's body between the 
 fore legs and held it there for a moment. 
 Then he stooped, gathered a dangling 
 7
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 paw, and rubbed the raspy pad of it 
 against his cheek. 
 
 "No. He won't move any more," he 
 said. "Ask Mrs. Gregory to come down." 
 
 When the mistress of Brookfield came, 
 she kneeled before the king in a patch of 
 the streaming sunlight at which he had 
 blinked early that morning. She kneeled 
 a long time, twisting one of the king's 
 soft ears between her fingers. 
 
 "He liked to have me do that," she 
 said, looking up. 
 
 The master of Brookfield nodded. 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield bent until 
 her lips were close to the ear she had been 
 stroking. 
 
 "Old lover . . . old lover!" she whis- 
 pered. Then she got up suddenly and 
 went out into the rose garden. 
 
 And so there was a chair which no one 
 ever sat in standing in the bay window 
 8
 
 The Runt 
 
 of the living-room. And it was under- 
 stood that the chair would remain empty 
 until a dog was born at Brookfield who 
 could lie in it without shame. 
 
 Highland Lassie was in disgrace. Her 
 field trial record was forgotten. She had 
 brought three puppies into the world and 
 had smothered two of them before they 
 were six hours old. 
 
 "An* to think," wailed Peter, head ken- 
 nel man at Brookfield, "the 'ussy's went 
 an' rolled on the only Roderigo puppies 
 this world'll ever see again! Look what 
 she's got left one pup, an' 'im the runt !" 
 He poked the pinky-white atom with a 
 stumpy forefinger, and Highland Lassie 
 cuddled the puppy hastily to her side. 
 
 Leona, the big blond waitress, removed 
 a straw from Peter's coat and allowed her 
 hand to linger on his sleeve. 
 2 9
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Are you not to your breakfast com- 
 ing?" she asked. 
 
 But Peter had forgotten for the time 
 that her eyes were blue, that her bosom 
 was deep, and that she looked like gold 
 and milk and roses. 
 
 "Breakfust?" he snorted. "An' what 
 do I care about breakfust? 'Aven't I 
 just told you she's gone an* killed two 
 Roderigo pups, an' 'im layin' out there 
 in the orchard?" 
 
 Leona gave a gentle tug at his sleeve. 
 
 "Always more puppies there will be," 
 she said, and her words were like the notes 
 of a flute. 
 
 Peter straightened up and glared at 
 her. 
 
 "Always more puppies there will be!" 
 he repeated with dreadful scorn. "You 
 go back to the 'ouse!" 
 
 Leona departed with a quivering lip, 
 10
 
 The Runt 
 
 to have her statement swiftly verified. 
 That very day Black-Eyed Susan became 
 the mother of seven, of whom Dan Gath, 
 winner of the Manitoba All Age, was the 
 indifferent father. 
 
 "A fine litter by a good young sire!" 
 said Peter. "Brookfield ain't done yet. 
 'Ow's that for a grand pup the second 
 one there? 'E'll be a movin' picture, you 
 'ear me!" 
 
 "Maybe he'll be champion," suggested 
 a kennel boy, hopefully. 
 
 "Champion!" said Peter. "So'll your 
 grandmother. 'Ere, put some fresh 
 straw in that corner an' don't you 
 bother the bitch whilst you're doin' it, 
 neither." 
 
 But when the boy had gone Peter 
 filled his pipe and stared thoughtfully at 
 Black-Eyed Susan, her eyes still fever 
 bright from birth pangs. 
 11
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 " 'E might at that, old gel," said Peter 
 softly. " 'E might at that." 
 
 Four months later the second puppy 
 in the row of seven had grown into a 
 thing of beauty that made you gasp when 
 you saw him. From his proudly chiseled 
 head to the glistening plume of his tail he 
 was a triumph. 
 
 "The grandest pup we've ever bred at 
 Brookfield!" said Peter. "For looks, 
 that is," he added, glancing out toward 
 the orchard. "Only for looks." 
 
 Highland Lassie's puppy grew also. 
 He lived in a land of plenty unshared by 
 crowding brothers and sisters. He did 
 not dine in frantic haste, but deliberately 
 and at his ease, his soft-eyed mother 
 watching. 
 
 He was seldom disturbed by callers. 
 Even the abundance he received failed 
 to give him size. He could add nothing, 
 12
 
 The Runt 
 
 therefore, to the honor of Brookfield. 
 He could only dim, a little, the glory 
 of his sire and so they let him 
 alone. 
 
 Then weaning time came, and his 
 mother neglected him more and more. 
 At last she gave him up altogether, and 
 he was left to his own devices. 
 
 He tried hard to make the time pass. 
 A sparrow lighting in his runway was a 
 great event. He would creep toward it, 
 and at the proper distance would halt and 
 stand rigid until the sparrow flew away. 
 Sometimes the sparrow would fly to a 
 wire above the kennel and make a shadow 
 on the ground. When this happened he 
 pointed the shadow very carefully until 
 it, too, was gone. Always he wished to 
 pounce upon the sparrow, or its shadow; 
 but he was a son of Roderigo the great 
 Roderigo who never flushed a bird and 
 13
 
 Dumb "Bell of Brookfield 
 
 so he held his point, with no one there 
 to see. 
 
 Sparrows were few, however. They sel- 
 dom came to his yard. In the long hours 
 between their visits he was lonesome. He 
 grew to have a wistful expression, and a 
 grin that went to the heart. He seemed 
 to be grinning at himself. The last son of 
 Roderigo was a runt! It was a joke, a 
 grim joke, and he grinned at it. 
 
 When winter withdrew at last and 
 spring marched over the hills to Brook- 
 field, a great washing descended upon the 
 kennels and no one escaped. 
 
 Highland Lassie's puppy was smitten 
 with the rest. He was taken by a ken- 
 nel boy to the washroom and there he 
 suffered in silence. The bath brought 
 out his markings clearly, and after a 
 casual glance at him Peter bent over and 
 examined his left side. 
 14
 
 The Runt 
 
 "Now ain't that a curious mark?" he 
 said. "It might 'ave been painted on 
 'im, it's that perfect. It's like one of 
 them things the strong man 'olds up in 
 the circus I forget what you call 'em. 
 'E's the runt, by the old dog out of the 
 Lassie bitch, ain't 'e?" 
 
 "Yep," said the kennel boy. "He's all 
 alone in No. 9 runway." 
 
 "You 'aven't growed much, 'ave you?" 
 said Peter. 
 
 The wee son of Roderigo, his eyes still 
 smarting from carbolic soap, looked up 
 at Peter and grinned. 
 
 Peter drew in his breath sharply. 
 
 "Bli' me!" he said. "The beggar 
 knows. . . . Not much doin' down there 
 in No. 9, is there? 'Ow'd you like to 
 see the world for a while?" 
 
 Once more the puppy grinned up at 
 him. 
 
 15
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "All right," said Peter. 'Til come an' 
 get you when I'm through." 
 
 An hour later Peter opened the gate of 
 runway No. 9. 
 
 "Come on out, Runt!" he said cheer- 
 fully. And the runt, for that, it seemed, 
 was to be his name, came out. He stood 
 for a moment, dazed by sudden freedom, 
 then sped like an arrow far across the 
 lawn. Peter's eyes lighted. 
 
 " 'E can move!" he said. Then his face 
 fell. "But what'll that get him ?" he mut- 
 tered. " 'E couldn't step over a lead 
 pencil!'* 
 
 Each morning from then on the runt 
 was let out to follow Peter about the 
 place. Peter was in a cheerful mood 
 these days. The master and mistress of 
 Brookfield would soon return from Flor- 
 ida, and he was anticipating a triumph. 
 "Won't the missus squeal when she sees 
 16
 
 The Runt 
 
 'im!" he thought, as he brushed the shin- 
 ing coat of the Dan Gath puppy. "Eh, 
 Runt?" he said aloud. And the runt, 
 who had been gravely watching, grinned. 
 
 "I wish you'd quit that!" Peter told 
 him. "It gives me the creeps 1" 
 
 When at last the great day came, Peter 
 scorned delay. The mistress of Brook- 
 field was still in her hat and gloves when 
 she heard that he was waiting in the rose 
 garden. 
 
 "What does he want?" she asked. "I've 
 hardly caught my breath!" 
 
 She was told that he had something to 
 show her. 
 
 "Oh !" she said, and went to the terrace 
 that looked down into the garden. 
 
 Then Peter had his triumph. He was 
 standing at the foot of the terrace in the 
 sunshine, and by his side was a living 
 marvel, new washed and glistening. 
 17
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield stared, 
 breathless for a moment. 
 
 "Oh, Peter!" she gasped. "He's a 
 wonder dog! Bring him inside!" 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter, beaming. 
 
 "Bring him to the living-room, Peter. 
 Mr. Gregory's in there!" 
 
 She turned to the door, failing to see 
 that other who had followed Peter un- 
 certainly into the rose garden. She was 
 excited to begin with, and he was very 
 small. Also, he felt that he did not be- 
 long in the sunshine beside the wonder 
 dog; so he had hidden himself behind a 
 rosebush and watched her through the 
 leaves. 
 
 When they went into the house and 
 left him, he crept up the steps, crossed 
 the terrace, and halted at the open door. 
 . . . Peter had gone in here with the 
 pretty lady, and it was his habit to fol- 
 18
 
 The Runt 
 
 low Peter. He put a timid forepaw 
 across the threshold nothing happened. 
 He tried the other paw still nothing 
 happened. He caught the scent of Peter 
 now, so slowly and with caution he took 
 up the trail. 
 
 Presently he came to a big room, and 
 saw Peter and the pretty lady and a tall 
 man looking at the wonder dog. He 
 wished to keep out of sight until Peter 
 was ready to go. The recess of the bay 
 window seemed an excellent retreat and 
 he slipped into it. A doggy smell came 
 to him as he did so. He advanced and 
 found a huge chair with bulging arms 
 and a well-hollowed seat. 
 
 He loved the chair at sight. It seemed 
 so friendly and safe. It seemed to hold 
 out its arms to him in welcome. Why, 
 it actually seemed glad to see him! 
 Perhaps it didn't know that he was a 
 19
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 runt. . . He curled down into its soft 
 hollow with a deep sigh of content- 
 ment. 
 
 The master of Brookfield was still star- 
 ing at the wonder dog. 
 
 "How did you do it, Peter?" he said 
 at last. "He's too good to be true!" 
 
 "'E'll be true," said Peter, "if 
 breedin'll do it. 'E's by Dan Gath, out 
 of Black-Eyed Susan. You get one 
 like 'im out of a thousand matin's 
 maybe." 
 
 "He's handsome enough," said the 
 master of Brookfield. "But what will 
 he do in the field?" 
 
 "Listen," said Peter; "I've 'ad 'im on 
 larks a time or two, an' I'm tellin' you 
 now, we never bred a faster, wider, 'igher- 
 'eaded goin' pup . . . but one." He 
 glanced toward the leather chair, and a 
 look of bewilderment came into his face, 
 20
 
 The Runt 
 
 which changed to one of horror. "'Eavens 
 above!" he said. "Look there!" 
 
 They followed his gaze, conscious for 
 the first time of a strange sound which 
 rose and fell steadily in the bay window. 
 
 Curled deep in Roderigo's chair was 
 the runt, and, as Peter told the kennel 
 men afterward, " 'E was snorin' that 'eavy 
 you could 'ear 'im all through the room." 
 
 "And what the devil is that?" said the 
 master of Brookfield, after a stunned 
 silence. 
 
 "The runt of the last litter by the old 
 dog," said Peter. "'E just come along." 
 
 "Yes I see he did," said the master 
 of Brookfield. "Come here, you!" he 
 called. 
 
 The runt opened one eye, twitched his 
 tail sleepily, and closed the eye again. 
 That was all. 
 
 A whip hung in the bay window. The 
 21
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 terrier who lived at the house could have 
 told the runt what that whip was for. In 
 a moment the tall man stood above him. 
 
 "Get down out of that!" he said, and 
 flicked the whip over the chair. 
 
 The runt was frightened. The big 
 chair was his only friend, it seemed. He 
 shrank deeper into it as the whip was 
 raised above him. 
 
 "Don't! Please, Jim!" said the mis- 
 tress of Brookfield. "He's so little. He'll 
 learn soon enough." She came and took 
 the runt by his scruff. "Get down, little 
 mannie," she said, "this place isn't for 
 you." 
 
 "I 'ope not!" said Peter. 
 
 "Never mind, Peter," she said. "It 
 isn't his fault that he's little, and that 
 was his daddy's chair. . . . Oh, Jim! 
 See that dumb-bell on his side! Look! 
 It's perfect!" 
 
 22
 
 The Runt 
 
 "That's too bad!" said the master of 
 Brookfield, examining the mark. 
 
 "Why too bad?" asked Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 The master of Brookfield winked at 
 Peter. 
 
 "We'll never be able to lose him," he 
 explained. "Will we?" he said to the 
 runt, and the runt looked up and grinned. 
 
 Mrs. Gregory gave a quick little gasp. 
 
 "I hate such jokes!" she said. "Is he 
 registered, Peter?" 
 
 "No, mem," said Peter. 
 
 "Well, register him as Brookfield 
 Dumb-Bell and give him every chance." 
 Suddenly she stepped close to the runt. 
 "You two may have the beauty there," 
 she flashed; "and his missy will look after 
 him!" 
 
 "Why, Chief!" said the master of 
 Brookfield. 
 
 "I don't care!" she said. "He's little 
 23
 
 Dumb "Bell of Brookfield 
 
 and I think he knows it and it isn't 
 his fault!" Then she went out of the 
 room. 
 
 The master of Brookfield rubbed his 
 chin thoughtfully. 
 
 "Now what did we do, Peter?" he 
 asked. 
 
 It was a hot summer that year. Day 
 after day the sun glared down at Brook- 
 field, and the runt panted as he followed 
 Peter. Often when visitors arrived and 
 Peter was told to bring the wonder dog 
 to the house the runt came along. 
 
 He was always embarrassed during 
 these visits. He felt smaller than ever in 
 the stately rooms of the big house. But 
 he remembered his friend the chair, and 
 while the visitors were exclaiming over 
 the wonder dog he would slip away quietly 
 and crawl into it. 
 
 He was whipped for this several times, 
 24
 
 The Runt 
 
 but he never seemed to learn; so at last 
 he was put back in runway No. 9, where 
 there were no chairs at all, only loneliness 
 and an occasional sparrow. 
 
 One day the master of Brookfield vis- 
 ited the kennels. 
 
 "Peter," he said, "ship the Dan Gath 
 puppy to Ramsey, in Tennessee. Ship 
 him tomorrow night. Wire Ramsey. 
 . . . Hot, isn't it?" 
 
 "What about 'im?" said Peter, jerking 
 his thumb toward a runway. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the master 
 of Brookfield. Then he saw the occupant 
 of No. 9 staring wistfully out at Peter. 
 
 "Oh!" he said, "you break him this fall 
 for a shooting dog. He ought to have a 
 nose on him." 
 
 As Peter was going over a dog crate 
 next day, he looked up to find the mis- 
 tress of Brookfield watching him. 
 3 25
 
 Dumb -hell of Brookfield 
 
 "Good morning, Peter," she said. 
 "What's that crate for?" 
 
 "I'm shippin' the Dan Gath pup away 
 tonight, mem," said Peter. "'E's to 'ave 
 a chance at the trials." 
 
 "Why have you brought out only one 
 crate?" asked the mistress of Brookfield. 
 
 "I'm only shippin' one dog," said Peter, 
 tapping away with his hammer. 
 
 "Ah!" said she. "And when does the 
 runt go?" 
 
 "'E don't go," said Peter. "I'm to 
 break 'im myself for a shootin' dog." 
 
 "Peter!" said the mistress of Brook- 
 field. 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter uneasily. 
 
 "Get out another crate, please." And 
 when two crates stood side by side, the 
 mistress of Brookfield touched one of 
 them with her finger tips. 
 
 "The little chap," she said, "goes in this 
 26
 
 The Runt 
 
 crate tonight. Do you understand me, 
 Peter?" 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter. 
 
 "And, Peter tell Ramsey to send the 
 training bills to me." 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter. 
 
 Two weeks later the mails brought a 
 letter to Brookfield. It was addressed to 
 Peter, and this is how it ran: 
 
 Emeryville, Tennessee, R. R. No. 4 
 
 Sept. 6, 19 
 FRIEND PETER: 
 
 I take shame in telling you the small pup is 
 lost. He found a bevy the first day I took him 
 out, chased when they flushed, and I ain't seen 
 him since. I've hunted the country over and 
 offered big rewards. Tell Mrs. Gregory, and 
 say a good word for me. The big pup is doing 
 fine. I like every move he makes. I'll keep on 
 looking for the little pup, and that's all at 
 
 Yours in friendship, 
 
 W. RAMSEY. 
 27
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Peter sat on a sawhorse and slowly 
 read his letter. He moved to an over- 
 turned grindstone, seeking a better light, 
 and read it again. He looked up toward 
 the house, a black pile against the setting 
 sun, and whistled softly. 
 
 "'Ell will be to pay shortly," he mut- 
 tered, and moved reluctantly to his doom. 
 
 The master of Brookfield had been to 
 the cattle barns to watch the milking. 
 When he returned he found that Peter 
 was something of a prophet. He found 
 his lady bathed in tears, Peter standing 
 miserably before her, and maids running 
 in all directions. 
 
 "I'm going to Tennessee tonight!" she 
 gasped. "Read that!" 
 
 "But, Chief!" said the master of Brook- 
 field when he had read the letter. "You 
 couldn't possibly do any good down there. 
 If Ramsey, who knows every foot of the 
 28
 
 The Runt 
 
 country, can't find him, how can you ex- 
 pect to?" 
 
 "I'll send down a motor and ride all 
 
 day," she told him. "You can come too 
 
 and Peter and Felix to drive . . ." 
 
 "Is that all?" he said. "We'll be quite 
 a party. It's out of the question, my 
 dear. . . . I'll tell Ramsey to double the 
 reward and do everything possible. . . . 
 You'll make yourself sick if you don't 
 stop crying!" 
 
 "We have lost him, you see! In spite 
 of your horrid joke about it. Now I hope 
 you and Peter are satisfied! I'll write to 
 Ramsey!" she added ominously. "Oh, I'll 
 write to him!" 
 
 When W. Ramsey, Esq., received a 
 letter a few days later he whistled over 
 it much as Peter had whistled over 
 his. 
 
 "I guess I'd better quit traininV' he 
 29
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 muttered, "an' go to pup huntin' for a 
 perfession!" 
 
 And until he went West with his 
 "string," the redoubtable Bill Ramsey, 
 high-priced specialist in the training and 
 handling of field trial setters, turned his 
 field work and yard-breaking over to an 
 assistant, and scoured the country day 
 after day. But no one had seen a "real 
 small setter with a funny mark on his 
 side," and he never found a trace of what 
 he sought. 
 
 Brookfield Beau Brummell No. 43721 
 F. D. S. B., for such was now the won- 
 der dog's official title, was taken to a 
 country where he could go far, and fast, 
 and wide. 
 
 In the cramped valleys and thicket- 
 rimmed fields of the East, bobwhite lives 
 close to cover, and field trial dogs are edu- 
 30
 
 The Runt 
 
 cated in the land of the prairie chicken, 
 where their handlers can keep them in 
 sight for mile after level mile. 
 
 The Beau was put down one morning 
 with the veteran Rappahannock as guide, 
 counselor, and friend. The sun was be- 
 ginning to climb the eastern side of the 
 huge blue void which domed an ocean of 
 grass. 
 
 "Hi, yah! Get away!" yelled Ramsey. 
 Rappahannock, free of the leash, shot 
 over a gentle rise and was gone. He had 
 eaten up a good half-mile of country when 
 the frostbitten grass began to whisper 
 just behind him. He flattened out in a 
 desperate effort to shake off the whisper, 
 but the whisper grew to the soft pad, pad 
 of flying feet, as the Beau, moving like 
 oil, flowed past. 
 
 Ramsey lowered his field glasses and 
 smiled. 
 
 31
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Look out for that one, Mike!" he 
 called to his assistant. "They've bred an- 
 other bird dog at Brookfield!" 
 
 As time went on and the Beau devel- 
 oped into a prodigy of speed, range, and 
 nose, Peter went about his work with a 
 far-away look in his eyes. His body was 
 at Brookfield, his spirit in Manitoba. 
 The Beau would make his first start in 
 the great Canadian stake, and "They 
 can't beat him!" was the word that came 
 from Ramsey. 
 
 On the day the stake was run Peter 
 sat on the grindstone and whittled. He 
 spoke no word to anyone. Late in the 
 evening the telephone bell rang in the 
 kennels, but Peter never stirred. A ken- 
 nel boy approached him timidly. 
 
 "They want you up to the house," said 
 the boy; and Peter closed his knife and 
 rose. 
 
 32
 
 The Runt 
 
 He found the mistress of Brookfield in 
 the living-room. Her cheeks were 
 flushed, her eyes like stars. She was 
 dancing about the master of Brookfield 
 with a fluttering telegram in her hand. 
 
 "Peter!" she said, "Oh, Peter! See 
 what our boy's done!" 
 
 Peter read the telegram, then looked 
 at the master of Brookfield through half 
 shut lids. 
 
 "If they don't watch 'im Vll likely take 
 the National," he said. 
 
 "It's possible," said the master of 
 Brookfield. "Yes, it's possible." 
 
 "Why, of course," said Mrs. Gregory. 
 "Didn't you know that? He's to be cham- 
 pion. . . . Outclassed his field!" she sang. 
 "Did you read that, Peter? Read it 
 again." 
 
 This was only the beginning. The Beau 
 swept through field trial after field trial, 
 33
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookjield 
 
 piling victory upon victory. He won 
 again in Canada. He came nearer home, 
 into Illinois, to take the Independent All 
 Age from the best dogs in the land. He 
 went down into Georgia, and left his field 
 gasping behind him in the select Conti- 
 nental. He won "off by himself," as 
 Ramsey said, in the Eastern Subscription 
 against twenty-five starters, and "every 
 dog worth a million dollars!" 
 
 He was certain to take the National. 
 No other dog could stand his pace in the 
 three-hour running of the Championship. 
 Rival handlers conceded this, and Black- 
 Eyed Susan came into her own. 
 
 "Susan is trying not to look down on 
 the rest of us, Peter," explained the mis- 
 tress of Brookfield. 
 
 Peter watched Black-Eyed Susan par- 
 take of crackers and cream languidly, and 
 from a silver spoon 
 
 34
 
 The Runt 
 
 "I can't say as 'ow you're 'elpin' 'er 
 much," he said. 
 
 Then suddenly llamsey was smitten 
 with inflammatory rheumatism, and the 
 Beau was turned over to Scott Benson, 
 who would handle him in his other en- 
 gagements. 
 
 "Don't worry," Peter told the master 
 of Brookfield. "Scott's a good 'andler. 
 It's all over, anyway, but the United 
 States and the Championship. . . . Are 
 you goin' down?" 
 
 "To the National? Why, yes," said the 
 master of Brookfield. He caught a wist- 
 ful look in Peter's eyes. "Would you 
 care to go?" he asked. 
 
 Peter bent over and picked up a willow 
 twig for whittling purposes. 
 
 "Why, I expect the boys could look 
 after things here for a day or two," he 
 said. 
 
 35
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 The United States All Age was the 
 last big stake before the Champion- 
 ship. On the morning after it was run, 
 Peter was whistling as he sprinkled the 
 whelping shed with disinfectant. Foot- 
 steps crunched on the gravel outside and 
 he stepped to the door. The master of 
 Brookfield stood there with a newspaper 
 in his hand. 
 
 "He was beaten, Peter," he said. 
 
 "No!" said Peter. And after a si- 
 lence "What beat 'im?" 
 
 "Little Sam," said the master of 
 Brookfield. 
 
 "An* who is Little Sam?" asked 
 Peter. 
 
 "I don't know," said the master of 
 Brookfield. "I never heard of him be- 
 fore. Our dog was second. Here! Read 
 it yourself." 
 
 The dispatch was short: 7 
 36
 
 The Runt 
 
 Grand Junction^ Term., Jan. 8. 
 In the All Age stake of the United States 
 Field Trial Club, Little Sam, lemon and white 
 setter, handled by C. E. Todd, was first. Brook- 
 field Beau Brummell, black, white, and ticked 
 setter, handled by Scott Benson, was second. 
 Thirty-two starters. 
 
 "C. E. Todd!" said Peter. "Why, 
 that's Old Man Todd 'e's eighty years 
 old if 'e's a day ! What's 'e doin' back in 
 the game?" 
 
 "Don't ask me!" said the master of 
 Brookfield. "He's back, it would seem, 
 and he's brought a dog." 
 
 "Do you think Vll start 'im in the Na- 
 tional?" Peter inquired. 
 
 "I presume so," said the master of 
 Brookfield. "You're to bring the Beau 
 home, Peter if he wins." 
 
 "An' if 'e don't win?" asked Peter. 
 
 "Why, then," said the master of Brook- 
 37
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 field, "he can stay in training and try 
 again next year." 
 
 Three days later the mistress of Brook- 
 field stood with Black-Eyed Susan in the 
 high stone arch of the front entrance. 
 "You're to bring home the champion, 
 Peter!" she called. "Don't fail us, will 
 you? Susy and me? There's some light 
 underwear in the black bag, Jim; it may 
 be warm in Tennessee. Good-by . . . 
 Good-by, Peter. ... Your shaving 
 things are in the small bag, Jim! Peter 
 Peter! Don't forget Susy and me 
 we'll be waiting!" 
 
 "No, mem," said Peter stoutly. But 
 as he watched the landscape slide steadily 
 northward the ties clicked a fearsome re- 
 frain: "Little Sam!" they said, "Little 
 Sam!" 
 
 Grand Junction was reached at last. 
 Scott Benson was the first to greet 
 38
 
 The Runt 
 
 them at the packed and roaring hotel. 
 
 "Well," said the master of Brookfield, 
 "how does it look?" 
 
 The trainer shook his head. 
 
 "Bad, Mr. Gregory," he said. "We've 
 got an awful dog to beat." 
 
 "You mean the dog that old Todd's 
 got?" said Peter. 
 
 "Yes," said Scott. "That's what I 
 mean but he ain't a dog." 
 
 "What is 'e, then?" asked Peter. 
 
 "He's a flyin' machine, with a tele- 
 scope nose. You got a grand dog, Mr. 
 Gregory, a grand dog. A gamer dog 
 never lived he'll try all the way; but 
 this here dog that old fool's got a 
 hold of somehow ain't human. In three 
 hours he'll find all the quail in the 
 state!" 
 
 "What's 'e look like, an' 'ow's 'e bred?" 
 Peter inquired. 
 
 39
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Get ready to laugh," said Scott. "I 
 forgot to tell you. His breedin's un- 
 known, an* he ain't as big as a stud 
 beagle." 
 
 That evening was a trial. Beau Brum- 
 mell seemed forgotten. The hotel lobby 
 echoed with the name of Little Sam. 
 
 "He must be a great dog," smiled the 
 master of Brookfield. "I'll enjoy seeing 
 him run. I think I'll turn in now, Major, 
 if you'll excuse me. I'm a little tired 
 from the trip." 
 
 Peter sat up longer, half listening to 
 the babble about him. At last he became 
 conscious of a hissing for silence as the 
 secretary climbed to a table top and began 
 to read the drawings for the National. 
 
 "Belwin with Dan's Lady!" read the 
 
 secretary. "Opal Jane with Rappahan- 
 
 nock! Bingo with Prince Rodney!" and 
 
 so the starters in the Championship were 
 
 40
 
 The Runt 
 
 paired. At last, at the very end, the sec- 
 retary paused an instant and smiled 
 grimly. "Brookfield Beau Brummell with 
 Little Saml" he read, and there was a 
 roar that shook the hotel. 
 
 Chuck Sellers leaped upon Peter and 
 took him to his bosom. 
 
 "Stick around, Pete!" he yelled. "Stick 
 around fur the big showl" 
 
 Peter shoved him aside. 
 
 "I'm goin' to bed," he growled. "I 
 'ope I get a decent 'oss tomorrow." 
 
 But fate had a blow in store for Peter. 
 In the scramble for mounts next morn- 
 ing, a big gray mule with a will of his 
 own was "wished on him" as Chuck Sel- 
 lers put it, and he devoted the next few 
 hours to equestrianship. By the time the 
 second brace was cast off he had con- 
 quered, and he saw good old Rappahan- 
 
 nock win on his courage from dashing 
 4 41
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Opal Jane, who failed to last the three 
 hot hours and was running slower and 
 slower, with a dull nose, when they took 
 her up. 
 
 The Championship was run off smooth- 
 ly. Brace after brace was put down, 
 until at last came Thursday morning and 
 the pair for which they waited. 
 
 Peter had been having an argument 
 with his mount, who hated to start in for 
 the day. When it was settled he looked 
 up to see an old man standing ahead of 
 the judges, with a lemon and white setter 
 who tugged and tugged to be gone. He 
 was small beyond belief, this setter, so 
 small that Peter rubbed his eyes. Then 
 he rode down the line of horsemen until 
 he found Chuck Sellers. 
 
 "Don't tell me that's 'im, Chuck?" he 
 said. 
 
 "That's him," said Chuck. 
 42
 
 The Runt 
 
 "Why, a bunch of grass'll stop 5 iml" 
 said Peter. ' 'E ain't big enough to jump 
 it." 
 
 "He don't jump nothin'," Chuck in- 
 formed him. "He's got wings." 
 
 "'E may lose 'em before three hours," 
 said Peter. "'Im an' 'is breedin' un- 
 known." 
 
 "Maybe," said Chuck. "Here's the 
 dog to clip 'em, or it can't be done," and 
 he pointed to Beau Brummell going out 
 to his position. 
 
 He was still the wonder dog, a glory 
 every inch of him, and a murmur of ad- 
 miration rippled down the line of horse- 
 men. . . . Peter felt a sudden glow of 
 pride and hope. 
 
 But it didn't last. The next moment 
 
 he was watching a white speck fade away 
 
 across the stubble. As it grew dimmer 
 
 and dimmer so did Peter's hopes. The 
 
 43
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 white speck was Little Sam, breeding un- 
 known. When he whirled and came to 
 point, at the far edge of the woods, Brook- 
 field Beau Brummell was a hundred feet 
 behind. 
 
 Peter was among the stragglers in the 
 stampede across the field which followed. 
 When he reached the mass of waiting 
 horsemen, Old Man Todd was being 
 helped out of his saddle to shoot over his 
 dog. 
 
 With a feeling of numb despair Peter 
 looked for the master of Brookfield. He 
 saw him at last, sitting his horse a little 
 apart from the crowd, his face the color 
 of ashes. 
 
 Peter rode to him quickly. 
 
 "What's the matter, sir?" he asked. 
 "Are you unwell?" 
 
 The master of Brookfield kept his eyes 
 on the pointing dog. 
 44
 
 The Runt 
 
 "Look!" he said, "look!" And Peter 
 looked at Little Sam. Then his heart 
 skipped a beat, fluttered, and sent the 
 blood surging against his eardrums. 
 
 Little Sam had his bevy nailed. He 
 stood as though of stone. He looked like 
 white marble against the dark of the 
 woods. And on his side, his left and 
 nearest side, was a perfect lemon dumb- 
 bell. . . . 
 
 "My Gawd!" said Peter. "My Gawd!" 
 
 He swung his eyes along the woods and 
 found another statue. It was Beau 
 Brummell, still as death itself, in honor 
 of his brace mate. 
 
 "My Gawd!" said Peter again. 
 "What'll we do?" 
 
 "Nothing now" said the master of 
 Brookfield. "Let the best dog win." 
 
 A man should only whisper while the 
 championship is run, but Peter rose in his 
 45
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 stirrups, not fifty feet from a brace on 
 point, and disgraced himself forever. 
 
 "My money's on the old dog's blood," 
 he howled; "an* let the best dog win!" 
 
 "Peter! Peter!" said the master of 
 Brookfield, and took him by the arm. 
 
 "I forgot," said Peter sheepishly. 
 
 There have been field trials in the past, 
 there will be field trials in the future. But 
 those who saw the whirlwind struggle be- 
 tween the great Beau Brummell and the 
 white ghost with the magic nose will not 
 listen while you tell of them. Eighteen 
 bevies they found that day, and they went 
 at top speed to do it. Not a bird was 
 flushed as they flashed into point after 
 dazzling point, backing each other like 
 gentlemen. 
 
 It was perfect bird work, done with 
 marvelous speed, and the Beau had the 
 sympathy of those who watched, for they 
 46
 
 The Runt 
 
 knew that he was beaten. He had every- 
 thing that makes a champion, including 
 looks and heart. But the little white dog 
 who skimmed from one covey to the next 
 was more than a champion he was a 
 miracle. The blazing soul of Roderigo 
 had leaped to life in this, his son, and 
 would not be denied. 
 
 An hour or more had passed when 
 Chuck Sellers thought of Peter and 
 sought him out to offer what consolation 
 he could. 
 
 "The little dog may quit, Pete," he 
 said, "any time now. It's the last half 
 that tells on the short-bred ones." 
 
 Then Peter gave the puzzled Chuck a 
 wide calm smile. 
 
 "Nothing is certain in this 'ere world," 
 he said. "But I'll tell you one thing that 
 is. That little dog won't quit till the 
 pads wear off his feet." 
 47
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 And Peter was right. The announce- 
 ment of the new champion finished with 
 "breeding unknown." 
 
 The crowd swarmed toward the win- 
 ner, who grinned as they closed about him. 
 They had never seen a National Cham- 
 pion without a pedigree, and they pushed 
 and pulled and laughed and hooted. 
 
 A Field reporter was yelling at Old 
 Man Todd above the noise. 
 
 "The country wants to know this dog's 
 breeding, old man," he said. "And it's 
 got to be traced, if possible." 
 
 "He ain' got no breedin', I tell you!" 
 screamed Old Man Todd. "He's a nig- 
 gah-raised dawg jes' a niggah-raised 
 dawg!" 
 
 The runt was frightened. It must be 
 
 terrible to be a nigger-raised dog, or all 
 
 these men wouldn't glare at him and yell ! 
 
 He remembered leaving the place where 
 
 48
 
 The Runt 
 
 the big house was, long ago, and riding 
 on a train. He remembered running for 
 miles and miles until he had found that 
 nice shed where he could rest. A black 
 man had come to the shed and given him 
 some milk. He drank it all and went to 
 sleep. 
 
 Next he remembered hunting birds 
 with the black man every day. One day 
 an old man had watched him find some 
 birds and had talked with the black man. 
 Then he was taken away by the old man, 
 and had hunted birds with him ever 
 since. 
 
 They had had a good hunt today. But 
 now he was tired, and they all yelled at 
 him so Then someone pushed and 
 fought his way through the crowd, and 
 the runt was glad to see him, for it was 
 Peter, whom he had followed long ago. 
 
 The runt went to him quickly, and 
 49
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Peter fell on one knee and put an arm 
 about him. 
 
 "Runt!" said Peter. "Runt! You're 
 yer daddy's own son!" 
 
 The runt grinned, and Peter put him 
 down and took hold of the leash. 
 
 "Let go of this, Old Man," he said. 
 
 It is not a good thing to win the cham- 
 pionship with a "niggah-raised" dog when 
 that dog has been advertised over an en- 
 tire state as lost. Old Man Todd looked 
 into Peter's eyes. 
 
 "Why why " he began, and stopped. 
 Then his fingers unclosed from the leash 
 and he backed slowly into the crowd. 
 
 Peter whirled about and faced the re- 
 porter, with the runt close at his side. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Reporter," he said, "you 
 
 can put in your paper that Brookfield 
 
 Dumb-Bell by Champion Brookfield Rod- 
 
 erigo 'as won the National. You can say 
 
 50
 
 The Runt 
 
 the new champion is out of Brookfield 
 'Ighland Lassie. You can tell 'em 'e was 
 bred and whelped at Brookfield and 
 now Vs goin' 'ome." 
 
 The reporter was dancing up and down. 
 His face was red and he had lost his hat. 
 
 "How can I verify this?" he yelled. 
 "How can I verify this?" 
 
 Suddenly the runt saw the tall man who 
 lived in the big house he dimly remem- 
 bered. He had always been afraid of the 
 tall man he was so quiet. He was quiet 
 now. He didn't yell at all, but when he 
 held up his hand everybody kept still. 
 
 "I can verify it for you," he said. 
 
 "Mr. Gregory!" said the reporter. 
 "Good, very good excellent! Will you 
 let me have the facts as quickly as pos- 
 sible, please? I've got to catch the even- 
 ing papers !" 
 
 Peter didn't stay to hear what the tall 
 51
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 man said, and the runt was glad for he 
 was tired. But Peter put him on a train 
 and he couldn't sleep it jiggled so, and 
 the baggage man gave him part of his sup- 
 per. When other men came into the car, 
 the baggage man pointed to him and said 
 something about "National Champion," 
 and "worth ten thousand dollars," and the 
 men came and stared at the runt. 
 
 At last they got out of the train, and 
 he and Peter and the tall man rode in an 
 automobile till they went through some 
 gates, and the runt saw the lights of the 
 big house shining through the trees. 
 
 "Where shall I take him," asked Peter, 
 "to the kennels?" 
 
 The tall man dropped his hand on the 
 runt's head. 
 
 "I think not, Peter," he said ; and they 
 all got out at the front door. 
 
 As they came into the hall someone 
 52
 
 The Runt 
 
 called from upstairs, and the runt recog- 
 nized the voice of the pretty lady. 
 
 "Oh, Jim!" said the voice. "Why didn't 
 you wire? Did Beau Brummell win?" 
 
 "No," said the tall man. "He was run- 
 ner up." 
 
 "Oh!" said the voice, and then nothing 
 more for a while, and the runt could hear 
 the big clock ticking in the hall. 
 
 "Is Peter there?" said the voice at last. 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter. 
 
 "You went back on Susy and me, didn't 
 you, Peter?" said the voice. 
 
 "Come down here, Chief!" said the tall 
 man. "Unleash him!" he directed in a 
 low voice, and Peter did so. 
 
 The runt threw up his head and sniffed. 
 He was so tired by now that his legs were 
 beginning to shake, and he wanted a place 
 to lie down . . . then suddenly he re- 
 membered. He walked to the living-room 
 53
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 and peered in. ... Yes, there was his 
 friend the chair, holding out its arms to 
 him. . . . The runt gave a deep sigh as 
 he curled himself into it. 
 
 The tall man who had followed laughed 
 softly. 
 
 "And that's all right!" he said. 
 
 Just then the pretty lady came in. 
 
 "Why what dog is that?" she asked. 
 
 "Don't you know?" said the tall man. 
 
 The pretty lady stared at the runt very 
 hard. He became uneasy, and grinned. 
 The pretty lady shrieked and ran to him. 
 
 "Little mannie!" she said, hugging him 
 until he could feel her heart beating 
 against his side. "Where did they find 
 you, little mannie?" 
 
 "At Grand Junction," said the tall 
 man. 
 
 "What was he doing there?" asked the 
 pretty lady. 
 
 54
 
 The Runt 
 
 "A good deal," said the tall man. 
 
 The pretty lady gave the runt a last 
 big squeeze, then she straightened up. 
 
 "Oh, Runt!" she said. "Darling Runt 
 you're just as bad as ever!" She put 
 her hand on his collar. "Come 1" she said. 
 "This place isn't for you." 
 
 But the tall man stepped forward, and 
 took her hand from the collar. His eyes 
 were shining queerly and his voice was 
 husky. 
 
 "Let him alone, my dear!" he said. 
 "Let him alone!" 
 
 It was nice of the tall man to do this, 
 thought the runt. He must have known 
 how tired, how very tired, he was. He 
 curled himself deep in the chair and began 
 to snore. ... In his dreams he heard 
 the tall man talking, and then the pretty 
 lady bent above him, and a wet drop fell 
 on his nose. 
 
 55
 
 A RELUCTANT TRAVELER
 
 II 
 
 A RELUCTANT TRAVELER 
 
 LEONA was a Catholic. Also, she 
 adored church weddings. Also, she 
 was aided and abetted in her madness, 
 and Peter was sunk in gloom. 
 
 From the bottom of his soul he favored 
 an unostentatious, not to say stealthy, 
 visit to the justice of the peace. Why 
 prolong this hour of pain? Why be butch- 
 ered to make a Brookfield holiday? 
 
 Beyond all doubt his new shoes would 
 hurt him. His boiled shirt would creak 
 when he breathed. He would have to 
 wear suspenders, which he loathed, and 
 lately there had been a growing murmur 
 in favor of kid gloves. 
 
 His collar would choke him: but this 
 59
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 would be a transitory affliction. Nature, 
 kind nature, would aid him here: before, 
 during, and immediately following the 
 ceremony he would, as he told himself, 
 "sweat to beat 'ell." 
 
 He was justified in this prophecy. At 
 the mere recollection of the wedding of 
 Felix and Minnie he broke into a gentle 
 perspiration. He remembered how that 
 laundress, the fat one, who was by nature 
 a tearful person, had turned the ceremony 
 into a cataclysm of grief. He remem- 
 bered how at the dance which followed 
 the wedding he himself had been forced 
 to take a turn with the bride, and how, 
 after one round of the carriage house, she 
 had informed him that it was lucky she 
 was going to Niagara Falls because it was 
 now doubtful if she could ever find enough 
 cold water to relieve her feet. 
 
 Well, at any rate, there would be no 
 60
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 trip to Niagara Falls for him ; there were 
 certain limits beyond which he would not 
 be driven. Leona had suggested it, of 
 course. But the new brick cottage near 
 the kennels was finished and furnished 
 and waiting. He would make no '"oly 
 show" of himself at the station, "dodgin' 
 shoes an' such !" That was final. 
 
 Then one morning he was passing the 
 stables and was halted by a harrowing 
 spectacle. The doors of the carriage house 
 stood open. Clustered about the victoria 
 was a chattering feminine group who bent 
 to their dreadful task with giggles and 
 much white ribbon. 
 
 Between a rage and a panic Peter 
 sought the master of Brookfield. 
 
 "Beggin* your pardon," he began. 
 "But this 'ere 'as gone far enough." 
 
 The master of Brookfield was spending 
 a dreamy hour in the gun room among 
 61
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 a welter of firearms, fishing tackle, the 
 game heads of four continents, and the 
 smell of oil and leather. He looked up 
 vaguely from a battered tin box choked 
 with salmon flies, and blinked at Peter. 
 
 "If that's the case, let's stop it," he said. 
 "But what are you talking about?" 
 
 Peter raised a quivering finger. "I am 
 a plain man!" he roared. 
 
 "Granted," said the master of Brook- 
 field. 
 
 "I'm no frog-eatin' French shofer!" 
 
 "True," said the master of Brookfield. 
 
 "An'," declared Peter, "111 not drive 
 'ome in nothing with ribbons on it !" 
 
 The master of Brookfield picked up a 
 patent reel and turned quickly to the 
 window. He became absorbed in the 
 reel's mechanism for some moments. 
 
 At last, with his back to Peter, he 
 spoke. "I suppose youVe told Leona?" 
 62
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 "I 'ave not," said Peter, "an' 'ere's 
 why: She 'as every female on the place 
 behind 'er. I 'ave gave up on this 'ere 
 church notion, with 'alf the town there an' 
 Father Vincent in 'is shirt tail sayin' 'okus 
 pokus at me. I 'ave gave up on kid gloves. 
 I 'ave gave up on 'avin' a stinkin' posy 
 pinned to me. But drivin,' 'ome in a 
 bloomin' birdcage is more than I will 
 do." 
 
 "Well, that settles it, doesn't it? Why 
 do you come to me?" 
 
 Peter glanced cautiously about him, 
 and directed a meaning look at the master 
 of Brookfield. "Be'ind all this," he con- 
 fided hoarsely, "is the missus!" 
 
 "Ah!" said the master of Brookfield. 
 
 "Could you now," said Peter, "be of 
 'elp to me in that quarter?" 
 
 The master of Brookfield shook with a 
 sudden spasm of coughing. When he 
 63
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 was sufficiently recovered he extended his 
 hand to Peter. 
 
 "We'll make a try of it," he said. "But 
 I'm afraid we don't amount to much at a 
 time like this, Peter." 
 
 A moment later they were advancing 
 manfully on the breakfast-room. 
 
 "Chief," began the master of Brook- 
 field, "we have a complaint to make." 
 
 Mrs. Gregory broke a French roll 
 crisply in haif. 
 
 "The cream, please, Leona," she said. 
 "Well, what is it?" she inquired over her 
 coffee cup. 
 
 "Peter shrinks from the spectacular,'* 
 explained the master of Brookfield. "He 
 is a believer in er quiet simplicity. He 
 objects, particularly, to ribbons on his 
 carriage. Couldn't you get along without 
 this feature?" 
 
 As the last words fell from the lips of 
 64
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 the master of Brookfield, Leona forgot a 
 lifetime's training. She shot one venom- 
 ous glance at Peter, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "Like that he is!" she sobbed. "Al- 
 ways like that he is. Nothing does he 
 think of but p-p-puppies." She made a 
 hasty clutch at her apron and the cream 
 jug tilted a yellow pool straight into Mrs. 
 Gregory's lap. "Ah !" came a wail of hor- 
 ror from Leona. "Pardon, madam." 
 
 Confusion and the flourishing of nap- 
 kins followed. Despite them, when the 
 mistress of Brookfield could rise from the 
 table the front of her morning gown was 
 a woeful sight. She patted the grief- 
 stricken Leona reassuringly, and turned 
 to Peter. 
 
 "Now, I hope you're satisfied 1" She 
 said, and swept from the room. 
 
 "You see?" said the master of Brook- 
 65
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 field when they were safely in the gun- 
 room once more. 
 
 Peter nodded gloomily. "Oh, I've gave 
 up on that," he said; "but you 'ear me 
 now I'll not go to Nihagara Falls!" 
 
 Leona had accused Peter of thinking 
 only of puppies. This, however, was not 
 true. For instance, as his wedding day 
 drew near he was particularly concerned 
 over Peg o' My Heart, who was on the 
 verge of motherhood and who turned list- 
 lessly from the most tempting morsels 
 he could offer. 
 
 "What is it, old lady?" asked Peter. 
 "'Ere's a nice piece of liver now. Be a 
 good gel and take it! No? Well 'ow 
 about this good warm milk? The little 
 'uns'll need it. Come on now, Peggy 
 dear!" 
 
 At his urging Peggy sniffed at the milk 
 66
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 bowl, then lapped a swallow or two. She 
 drew back, thanked Peter with a wave of 
 her tail, and sank down into the straw. 
 
 Peter lifted her muzzle and stared into 
 her eyes. He found them dark and glit- 
 tering, and his own narrowed with anxi- 
 ety. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked once more, and 
 Peggy voiced her trouble with a gentle 
 whine. "Yes, I know," Peter told her 
 softly; but this was not the truth. He 
 could only, like the most pompous of 
 whiskered medicos, guess and guess 
 again. 
 
 However, he got his thermometer from 
 the medicine chest, and shook his head 
 over the tiny line of quicksilver a moment 
 later. . . . This much he knew: Brook- 
 field Peg o' My Heart, bench and field 
 trial winner, with the blood of twenty 
 champions in her veins, faced her ac- 
 67
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 couchement with a temperature of one 
 hundred and three. 
 
 Peter looked up from the thermometer 
 to find Leona standing in the doorway. 
 She had a slim white box in her hand and 
 a warm, shy look in her eyes. 
 
 "For you," she said. "From me. To- 
 morrow you wear it when when " She 
 became speechless, flushing hotly. 
 
 Peter took the box automatically, 
 opened it and beheld a lavender tie of 
 knitted silk. He gazed at the tie vaguely 
 for a moment, replaced the cover, and put 
 the box in his pocket. 
 
 "This 'ere bitch," he said, "ain't well 
 by no means." He stooped over Peg o' 
 My Heart. "If you're going to the 'ouse," 
 he threw over his shoulder, "telephone 
 Slosson to come out 'ere." 
 
 The warm, shy look fled swiftly from 
 Leona's eyes. The flush left her cheeks 
 68
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 as they paled with indignation. She had 
 knitted the tie with her own fair hands 
 and had gone back through rows and rows 
 to recover a stitch not even dropped but 
 loosely woven. 
 
 A silence that bristled followed Peter's 
 words. At last he glanced her way. 
 
 "Did you 'ear me?" he inquired, and 
 was shocked by the countenance of his 
 bride-to-be. Wrath blazed in her eyes. 
 Scorn curled her lips. Her chin quivered 
 ominously. Even as he opened his lips to 
 ascertain the cause of her displeasure she 
 turned stiffly from him and was gone. 
 
 Peter regarded the empty doorway for 
 a moment with a puzzled frown. 
 
 "Now what?" he said aloud. Then he 
 shut his jaws. "If it's Nihagara Falls," 
 he muttered, "she can take on till the cows 
 come 'ome 'er an' the missus, too." 
 
 He spent the next few hours with Peg 
 C9
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 o' My Heart, and Powder and Shot 
 howled a protest to him as he passed their 
 runway. They were the pick of the first 
 litter by Brookfield Dumb-Bell, were 
 through with yard breaking, and should 
 have gone afield that day. 
 
 "I'll thank you for less noise," Peter 
 told them. "You'll get your run tomor- 
 row. " He made the promise in good faith, 
 and then it dawned on him what day to- 
 morrow was. He grinned sheepishly. 
 "On the 'ole," he decided, staring at the 
 wildly eager Powder and Shot, "I'll 'ave 
 my 'ands full tomorrow, I expect." 
 
 Then he remembered that Peg o' My 
 Heart had never had distemper. She 
 showed no signs of the disease, but he did 
 not know what ailed her as yet, and until 
 her malady developed these youngsters 
 would be better farther from the whelp- 
 ing shed. He put them on leash and took 
 70
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 them to a runway at the extreme end of 
 the line. 
 
 "In you go," he said, and closed the 
 gate in their despairing faces. 
 
 Through such small incidents as this 
 come large affairs. The runways at 
 Brookfield have two feet of grouting be- 
 low the fences. In this particular run- 
 way the frost had been at work that win- 
 ter. It had lifted the grouting and forced 
 up the east fence several inches. Peter 
 had noticed this some months before and 
 had removed the inmate of the runway 
 also the loose grouting, intending to repair 
 the damage later. 
 
 And now, with the pressure of events 
 distracting him, he had forgotten; and 
 Powder and Shot, after a careful inspec- 
 tion of their new quarters, set joyfully to 
 work. Inside that fence was a dreary 
 world in which the hours dragged by on 
 71
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 leaden feet. Outside was a heaven con- 
 taining Peter and the rolling fields., To 
 reach it one must dig industriously; but 
 what was a little digging? 
 
 They dug until the moon came up to 
 watch their labors. They rested toward 
 morning, and when the sun rose a kennel 
 boy brought them food and went his way, 
 and then for hours they were undisturbed. 
 
 It was queer how quiet it was at the 
 kennels. They missed Peter's morning 
 inspection. They missed his footsteps 
 and his voice and his whistle. Well, he 
 was somewhere outside, that was certain. 
 . . . The situation seemed to require more 
 digging. 
 
 By nine o'clock, Powder, who was a 
 shade the smaller, squeezed, with a whim- 
 per of excitement, to freedom. 
 
 Shot wailed in agony and flung himself 
 at the hole. By a desperate effort he won 
 .72
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 through, leaving a tuft of hair behind him. 
 
 He gave a triumphant yelp, then shot 
 down the line of runways. He met Pow- 
 der, a white flash, returning, and together 
 they explored the kennel house. The 
 scent of Peter was all about, but Peter 
 himself was strangely absent. Well, he 
 had worked them over the marshy ground 
 by the creek the last time he had taken 
 them out. There were snipe in the marsh. 
 Perhaps Peter was looking for snipe ! . . . 
 They went over the hill toward the marsh 
 like twin streaks. 
 
 Peter was not at the marsh, but they 
 found a fat jacksnipe, and they chased it 
 madly across the oozy meadows while the 
 snipe said: "Scai-ip! Scai-ip!" and they 
 acquired a coating of black muck and 
 green slime. 
 
 The snipe became disgusted at last and 
 disappeared in the sky, and their thoughts 
 73
 
 Dumb "Bell of Brookfield 
 
 returned uneasily to Peter. They had 
 chased, which was wrong. Guilt was 
 heavy on their souls. They must find 
 Peter, take a whipping if necessary, and 
 be forgiven. 
 
 They turned homeward and scoured the 
 place from end to end. At last Shot 
 found a trace of Peter in the drive. He 
 followed the scent until it disappeared 
 unaccountably. It was replaced by the 
 smell of rubber tires. Ah, that was it! 
 Peter had gone away on the thing that 
 made the rubber smell. To find Peter it 
 was necessary to follow the rubber smell. 
 He explained this to Powder, and a mo- 
 ment later they arrived at the main gates 
 and the wide road leading out into the 
 world. 
 
 They hesitated here. They had never 
 been off the place before. It was a tre- 
 mendous venture; but the trail of the 
 .74
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 rubber smell led straight away from the 
 gates. They sniffed at it, whined anx- 
 iously, then slowly it drew them on. 
 
 There had been friction between the 
 groom and the best man. It had de- 
 veloped over the groom's toilet. In par- 
 ticular, a fawn-colored waistcoat which 
 the best man had extracted from his own 
 wardrobe had proved an irritant. It had 
 taken all of ten minutes to persuade the 
 groom that its splendors would not trans- 
 form its wearer into a "'oly show." 
 
 At last this was accomplished, a coat 
 was slipped on over the waistcoat, and a 
 whisk broom applied to the tout ensemble. 
 
 "An* now," said Peter ungratefully, "I 
 'ope to Gawd you're through." 
 
 Griggs, the butler, stepped back and 
 surveyed his work with growing pride. 
 He had felt his task to be hopeless until 
 75
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 now; but he had builded better than he 
 knew. The result surprised him. 
 
 "Not bad," he said, revolving slowly and 
 with half shut eyes about Peter's person. 
 "Very genteel, I should say, if you ask 
 me. Try to stand more as if you was 
 made of something besides cement." 
 
 He smoothed a lapel, tweaked the lav- 
 ender silk tie, and withdrew a boutonmere 
 from Peter's shaving mug. 
 
 "Mrs. Gregory's orders," he said firmly, 
 as he pinned the flowers to a shrinking 
 bosom. "If you'd take things as they 
 come," he suggested, "you'd 'elp appear- 
 ances by sweating less profuse." 
 
 A gleam of satisfaction flickered for an 
 instant in Peter's dripping countenance. 
 
 "I'll 'andle that matter to suit myself," 
 he stated. 
 
 Griggs consulted his watch. 
 
 "Well, take 'old of yourself," he ad- 
 76
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 vised. "I must 'ave you at the church in 
 ten minutes. 'Ere's the motor now. . . . 
 Kindly put that chewing tobacco back 
 where you got it!" 
 
 Ten minutes later Peter was staring 
 fixedly at nothing. His eyes were glazed, 
 his knees shook, his hands had become ex- 
 traordinarily prominent. There stretched 
 before him a white-ribboned aisle that cut 
 a blurred mass of rustling, whispering, 
 staring humanity squarely in half. All 
 Brookfield was there, of course, and most 
 of the village besides; but Peter knew 
 them not as individuals. They were noth- 
 ing but eyes, devouring eyes, that feasted 
 on the very soul of him as it palpitated 
 somewhere beneath the fawn-colored 
 waistcoat. 
 
 Then a face swam out of the blurred 
 mass before him, and it was the face of 
 the master of Brookfield, and it grinned 
 77
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 mockingly at him and then faded away. 
 
 There was a sort of moaning sound, 
 and Peter knew that it came from the 
 organ, and then the church door filled and 
 there bore down on him a floating cloudy 
 whiteness, and somewhere in it was a 
 new pair of eyes, big and blue and mys- 
 terious. 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield cooed once 
 with delight. 
 
 "Isn't she adorable, Jim?" she gasped. 
 "And Peter, I'm proud of Peter, too. . . . 
 It's going splendidly!" 
 
 The master of Brookfield gave the bride 
 a brief glance. Then his fascinated eye 
 swung back and settled on a lavender tie, 
 white boutonniere and fawn-colored waist- 
 coat. 
 
 "Superb!" he murmured, and bowed his 
 head in the darkest corner of the pew. He 
 looked up at last just as Father Vincent 
 78
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 rolled forth the first sonorous Latin of 
 the service. 
 
 Then the master of Brookfield became 
 conscious of a vague and rustling murmur 
 from the back of the church. He heard 
 the booming voice of Father Vincent fal- 
 ter. He turned toward the growing mur- 
 mur, and a look of such unhallowed joy 
 came into his face that the mistress of 
 Brookfield marveled, and quickly fol- 
 lowed his glance with her own. Her face 
 froze with horror as she did so. 
 
 Down the ribboned aisle, the rubber 
 smell discarded for the more certain scent 
 of Peter's footsteps, came two animated 
 mops of dust and swamp ooze. They 
 came swiftly, surely, and they threw them- 
 selves with abandon at Peter, whom they 
 had come so far to find. 
 
 The next few moments were full to 
 overflowing. It is a pleasure to record 
 79
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 that the best man was equal to the emer- 
 gency. He plunged to the rescue of the 
 groom or was it the fawn-colored waist- 
 coat ? at the expense of his own apparel. 
 He succeeded in fastening a pudgy hand 
 on Powder's collar, but the fingers of his 
 other hand closed wildly on one of Shot's 
 long, silky, sensitive ears, and Shot raised 
 his voice in a despairing wail. 
 
 Father Vincent had thus far proved 
 his mettle. He had no more than hesi- 
 tated for an instant at the first whirl- 
 wind entrance of the puppies. Then, 
 without a visible tremor, he continued the 
 service. 
 
 But now the groom was moved to 
 speech. He glared once at the worthy 
 Griggs, and addressed Father Vincent 
 briefly. 
 
 "'Old your 'orses," he said. He whirled 
 and advanced on the best man, and fire 
 80
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 was in his eye. "'Aven't you no sense?*' 
 he inquired. "Do you think you can 'old 
 a setter by the ear. 'E ain't a 'og nor yet 
 a calf! Leggo of 'im!" 
 
 Griggs obeyed, and Shot flew to his 
 rescuer with a whine of gratitude. 
 
 "'Ow," said Peter, advancing another 
 step, "would you like for a big fat-'anded 
 bum to take 'old of your ear?" 
 
 Griggs backed hurriedly against the 
 chancel railing, still holding Powder me- 
 chanically by the collar. Peter pointed 
 to the puppy. 
 
 "Leggo of 'im, too," he ordered, and 
 Griggs's nerveless fingers unclosed from 
 the collar. 
 
 "A setter's ear," explained Peter to 
 the awestricken front pews, "is that deli- 
 cate it ought never to be touched, 'ardly, 
 let alone 'anging to it." 
 
 At these words a distressing thing oc- 
 81
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 curred. For some moments the master 
 of Brookfield, unnoticed for the time 
 being, had been rocking back and forth as 
 though in terrible agony. But now at- 
 tention swung his way, for there burst 
 from him a sound difficult to describe. It 
 was as though a hen, afflicted with bron- 
 chitis, were attempting to cackle. That 
 he was suffering there could be no doubt, 
 for he writhed in his seat. Quite suddenly 
 he disappeared altogether, and those near- 
 est him realized that he had collapsed en- 
 tirely, and now half sat, half lay, in the 
 corner of the pew. 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield bent over 
 him. Her attitude was one of tender so- 
 licitude. It was deceiving, however. 
 
 "Jim Gregory," she hissed, "sit up this 
 instant!" 
 
 Strange words, harsh words, to a man 
 overtaken by a dire seizure, and the mas- 
 82
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 ter of Brookfield sent back a husky ap- 
 peal for mercy. 
 
 * 'I am dying, Egypt, dying,' " he in- 
 formed her. 
 
 His life partner proved herself a cruel, 
 a heartless woman. She straightened up 
 and sat stiffly erect, coldly, proudly pale. 
 
 "I'll not forgive you!" she told him, 
 looking straight before her, and added, 
 regardless of her grammar, "Never!" 
 
 All this is minor detail. The central 
 figure was Peter, who proved at this 
 moment his right to the attention of the 
 audience. He turned from the abashed 
 and shrinking Griggs and uttered one 
 word. 
 
 "'Eel!" he said. 
 
 Powder and Shot now did their mentor 
 proud. They obeyed the command in- 
 stantly, and halted just behind Peter, one 
 to the right, one to the left of him. Peter 
 83
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 took his place at Leona's side, the puppies 
 follgwing. 
 
 "Charge!" he ordered. 
 
 Powder and Shot sank dutifully dowii 
 behind him. Peter gave Father Vincent 
 a look of supreme triumph. 
 
 "'Ow's that," he inquired in a confiden- 
 tial whisper, "for only eight months?" 
 
 Father Vincent did not reply. His 
 face, which had been cherry red, became 
 a vivid purple. Above all else he wished 
 to meet the eye of the master of Brook- 
 field. He knew, however, that to do so 
 would be fatal. He made a supreme 
 effort. 
 
 "Join hands," he directed; and then, 
 despite the countenance of the bride, 
 which seemed to hold in check the light- 
 ning's blast, he went on with the service, 
 while Powder and Shot, their heads tilt- 
 ing now and then to hear the better, gave 
 84
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 his flowing Latin a close, a respectful 
 attention. 
 
 They were good. They were good as 
 gold, and Peter swelled with pride. His 
 face shone with it as he turned at last 
 from the altar, a bachelor no longer. 
 There remained, however, the long jour- 
 ney down a lane of whispering humans. 
 Would Powder and Shot stand this acid 
 test? 
 
 c 'Eel!" commanded Peter with some 
 anxiety. He was rewarded by such 
 prompt obedience that he was reassured. 
 He began the march down the aisle in 
 visible triumph. Then, as he passed the 
 pew wherein was the mistress of Brook- 
 field, he received a dagger glance that 
 made him falter. He looked uneasily be- 
 hind him to see if the puppies were at heel. 
 They were; but Leona, unfortunately, 
 was three paces in the rear of them. 
 85
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Then Peter remembered. He had been 
 told to bear his bride from the altar on 
 his right arm. He slackened his pace 
 until she came abreast of him, then poked 
 his elbow at her invitingly. 
 
 '"Eer," he muttered, "take 'old of this!" 
 
 And then Leona repudiated her mar- 
 riage vows with startling swiftness. The 
 echo of her promise to obey had scarcely 
 ceased to whisper from the vaulted ceil- 
 ing, yet at this first connubial command 
 she became insurgent. She shrank from 
 Peter's offered arm as though it were an 
 adder. Without acknowledging his pres- 
 ence by so much as the quiver of an eye- 
 lash, she swept on at Peter's side, to be 
 sure, but as far from physical contact with 
 him as the width of the aisle would permit. 
 
 They reached the door at last, to find 
 the victoria and a pair of hunters, pressed 
 into unaccustomed service, waiting at the 
 86
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 curb. Peter surveyed the victoria dubi- 
 ously. Once, long ago, it had been Brook- 
 field's pride. He glanced from its cloth 
 upholstering to the bedraggled Powder 
 and Shot. The comparison was odious; 
 but this was an emergency, and what must 
 be must be. 
 
 "I'll keep 'em on the floor like," he ex- 
 plained to old Marcus, who was on the 
 box. "They'd be 'ell-'ooping over 'alf the 
 country if I let 'em go. 'Op in !" he told 
 Leona, "an* 'old on to one of 'em when I 
 'and 'im to you." 
 
 Then, for the first time in her married 
 life, Leona addressed her husband. 
 
 "Assassin!" she gasped, and fled. 
 
 Peter's mouth opened with amazement 
 as he watched her. She went as though 
 pursued, her veil trailing behind her, her 
 hands clasped at her bosom. As she 
 reached the Brookfield limousine she 
 87
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 swerved, climbed wildly in, and sank, a 
 sobbing heap, into the deep cushions of 
 the back seat. 
 
 Peter's mouth was still open as the mis- 
 tress of Brookfield appeared hurriedly in 
 the church door. Her eyes swept past the 
 victoria and caught the huddled figure in 
 the limousine. She favored Peter with 
 one crushing look as she flew to Leona's 
 side. 
 
 The master of Brookfield followed her 
 leisurely. As he reached the car its door 
 closed in his face. 
 
 "Home, Felix," said, the mistress of 
 Brookfield succinctly, and the big car 
 rolled like a battleship from the curb. 
 
 Peter and the master of Brookfield 
 watched it until it turned the corner and 
 disappeared. Then their eyes met. 
 
 Peter put Powder and Shot into the 
 victoria, climbed in himself, and looked 
 88
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 uncertainly at the master of Brookfield. 
 
 '"Ow about a lift?" he suggested with 
 an apologetic glance at the bows of white 
 ribbon which gleamed like snow against 
 the dark running gear of the victoria. 
 
 The master of Brookfield accepted the 
 invitation with alacrity. 
 
 "You're on," he said with a gleam. 
 
 At the end of two strenuously tearful 
 hours the mistress of Brookfield had suc- 
 ceeded in convincing the bride that her 
 life was not wrecked beyond repair. 
 
 "And now," said the mistress of Brook- 
 field, "drink your tea and no more crying. 
 I'll see that you have your wedding trip." 
 
 "Yes, madam," said Leona. 
 
 "I'm going to send for Peter now. You 
 can leave on the six o'clock train tonight." 
 
 "To Niagara Falls we will go, 
 madam?" questioned Leona. 
 7 89
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "If you prefer," promised the mistress 
 of Brookfield, and was rewarded by a 
 quivering smile. 
 
 When Peter entered, hat in hand, a 
 few moments later, he, too, was smiling. 
 He beamed joyfully at Leona and the 
 mistress of Brookfield. 
 
 "The Peg bitch," he said, "'as 'ad six 
 grand pups. 'Er fever's gone down, an' 
 Slosson says she'll be 'erself in no time. 
 'E thinks mebby as 'ow " 
 
 "Peter," cried the mistress of Brook- 
 field, "stop this instant! There, there," 
 she said soothingly to Leona, "he doesn't 
 mean it. Don't you dare," she threw at 
 Peter, "mention dogs again!" 
 
 Peter swallowed hastily, reached for his 
 chewing tobacco, recollected himself in 
 time, and touched his forehead. 
 
 "No, mem," he said dazedly. 
 
 Thwe was a moment's pause. 
 90
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 "Peter," said the mistress of Brookfield 
 at last, "are you fond of Leona?" 
 
 Peter blushed to the roots of his hair 
 and dropped his eyes. He raised them 
 then until they met a pair of moist blue 
 ones, into which he gazed. 
 
 "Why," he burst out suddenly, "she's 
 just the finest gel that ever stood on 
 two legs!" 
 
 "Yes," said the mistress of Brookfield. 
 "Now give her a kiss." She became busy 
 at her desk for a moment, then turned to 
 Peter and put a folded piece of paper in 
 his hand. "You're going on a little trip 
 together," she explained. "You leave at 
 six o'clock. Drive to town now and have 
 that cashed." 
 
 Peter's face fell as he unfolded the 
 paper mechanically. He brightened some- 
 what when his eye took in the check's 
 figures. 
 
 91
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Why, now," he said, "I've been think- 
 ing as 'ow I'd like to go down to Chuck 
 Sellers's place in Tennessee. 'E's got a 
 strain of these 'ere Pointin' Griffons 'e 
 wants me to look over." 
 
 A quavering moan came from Leona. 
 The mistress of Brookfield shot Peter an 
 icy glance. 
 
 "You will go," she said frigidly, "to 
 Niagara Falls. Felix will take you to the 
 train." 
 
 "Yes, mem," said Peter, and withdrew. 
 
 At five forty-five that evening he strug- 
 gled with a bulging suitcase into the 
 limousine and took his seat beside his 
 beaming bride. 
 
 The master of Brookfield strolled out 
 of the dusk, cigarette in hand, and halted 
 by the car. 
 
 "Where to now?" he inquired. 
 
 "Nihagara Falls," said Peter. 
 92
 
 A Reluctant Traveler 
 
 "But I thought " began the master of 
 Brookfield. 
 
 Peter kicked the suitcase viciously, and 
 slumped down in his seat. 
 
 "Oh, I've gave up on that" he said.
 
 DUMB-BELL'S CHECK
 
 Ill 
 
 DUMB-BELL'S CHECK 
 
 DURING the summer months early 
 dinner was the custom at Brook- 
 field. It was served out of doors, weather 
 permitting, either on the terrace or be- 
 neath the canopy of vines which crept with 
 artful abandon from end to end of the per- 
 gola. 
 
 In the latter case it meant that the mas- 
 ter and mistress of Brookfield were alone 
 and it would be a "cozy" dinner, as they 
 called it, hidden from the many staring 
 windows of the big house by the dumb 
 and eyeless vine. 
 
 At such times those who served them 
 did so swiftly, and withdrew. Then they 
 helped themselves and stole choice mor- 
 97
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 sels from each other's plates, and giggled, 
 and "scrapped," as in days gone by, and 
 sometimes upset things, which was dread- 
 ful. But no one would come except at 
 the voice of the silver bell with the 
 carved ivory handle, and they were care- 
 ful not to touch it lest its fatal clamor 
 occur. 
 
 "Chief," said the master of Brookfield, 
 one August evening, "pass the jam!" 
 He indicated with a lordly gesture a 
 mound of currant jelly glowing in a crys- 
 tal dish. 
 
 Since jam had to do with childhood his 
 words were a challenge which Mrs. Greg- 
 ory at once accepted. 
 
 "Why, certainly," she said politely, and 
 placed a buttered ear of corn in his ex- 
 tended palm. 
 
 The master of Brookfield scooped a 
 lump of ice from his drinking goblet, en- 
 98
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 circled his lady with his arm, and drew 
 her slowly to him. 
 
 "It's not fair to use strength," she 
 wailed. "You know it's not. You're 
 breaking a rule." 
 
 At that exact moment Leona stood 
 round-eyed in the entrance to the per- 
 gola. 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield became par- 
 ticularly dignified. She returned to her 
 chair unhurriedly, patted her hair, and 
 then addressed Leona. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. "I didn't ring." 
 
 "Peter to you weesh to speak," ex- 
 plained Leona with a gulp. 
 
 Mrs. Gregory looked at Leona in 
 amazement. 
 
 "Peter?" she said. "Why, what's got 
 into the man?" Then apprehension seized 
 her. "Is anything wrong at the kennels?" 
 she asked quickly. "Where is Peter?" 
 99
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "'Ere, mem, beggin' your pardon," said 
 Peter, and appeared miraculously beside 
 Leona. "I thought as 'ow you'd like to 
 see this 'ere," he explained, as he pulled 
 a copy of The American Field from his 
 pocket. "It's just come." 
 
 "What's the matter with you, Peter?" 
 asked the master of Brookfield. "Have 
 you lost your mind?" 
 
 "No, sir, beggin' your pardon," said 
 Peter. "They've challenged with the big 
 pointer to run a three-hour match against 
 Dumb-Bell for a thousand dollars. It's 
 all in 'ere," he added, flourishing the pa- 
 per. "You can see for yourself." 
 
 The master of Brookfield scowled at 
 Peter. 
 
 "What of it?" he said. "Why do you 
 come here with it now?" 
 
 "Well, you see," said Peter, a shade 
 uncertainly, "the quicker you knew about 
 100
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 it, the quicker you could take 'em up. 
 You can wire yet tonight, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Gregory watched the master of 
 Brookfield with dancing eyes. But the 
 master of Brookfield did not smile. "Why 
 should I 'take 'em up'?" he asked. 
 
 Peter's jaw dropped. 
 
 "Why, now er " he began, and be- 
 came speechless as his world fell about 
 him. At last he looked up, dull-eyed. "I 
 never thought," he said, "as 'ow you'd 
 let 'em say we was afraid to race the big 
 'ound. ... I ax your pardon for dis- 
 turbin' of you." He folded the paper, 
 stuffed it into his pocket, and turned 
 slowly away. "Good night, mem," he 
 threw over his shoulder, and was 
 gone. 
 
 "Oh, Jim!" said Mrs. Gregory. "He's 
 heartbroken he thinks you mean it! 
 Peter!" she called, "Peter!" But Peter 
 101
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 was out of earshot, and she rang the silver 
 bell. 
 
 While someone went to summon Peter, 
 the master of Brookfield wrote a tele- 
 gram. As he finished, Peter again ap- 
 peared. 
 
 "They said as 'ow you wanted me," he 
 muttered, looking straight before him. 
 
 "Why, yes," said the master of Brook- 
 field. "You left in such a hurry you for- 
 got to take this with you. ... I want it 
 sent tonight." 
 
 Peter took the telegram and read it 
 carefully. He looked up with blazing eyes. 
 
 "That's tellin' 'em!" he said. "I'll start 
 workin' the little dog tomorrow. We'll 
 need all of two months to get 'im ready 
 Vll 'ave to go to Ramsey for a month on 
 chicken." 
 
 There are two championships in which 
 102
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 field trial dogs compete. The winning of 
 either means everlasting glory. One, the 
 National, is run in Tennessee on quail. 
 The other, the All America, is run in the 
 Far West on prairie chicken. 
 
 The winner of the National or the All 
 America has Champion written before his 
 name from that day on, and never again 
 may he compete in open trials. He is a 
 crowned king, whose sons and daughters 
 are of the blood royal. He may not stoop 
 to struggle with more common clay. 
 
 But a champion may run a match race 
 against any dog with the temerity to meet 
 him. And now Champion Brookfield 
 Dumb-Bell, winner of the National, had 
 been defied in public print by the owner 
 of Champion Windem Bang, winner of 
 the All America, and Peter was in a 
 fever. 
 
 The telegram he sent that night read: 
 103
 
 Dumb -Bell of Broof^field 
 
 Meet you any time after October first, at 
 any place, for any sum. 
 
 And it meant that "the little white 
 ghost" must leave his leather chair in the 
 living-room and take to the open for the 
 honor of Brookfield. 
 
 So, early next morning, Peter, a ken- 
 nel boy, and the small champion went 
 over the hill to the broad meadows across 
 which the brook lay like a silver serpent. 
 
 Peter rode a good horse. Dumb-Bell 
 had not been hunted for pleasure as yet, 
 and no man on foot could keep within 
 sight of the ghost at his work. 
 
 "Turn 'im loose!" said Peter to the ken- 
 nel boy. "An* meet me by them there wil- 
 lows in thirty minutes." 
 
 "O-o-o-o!" said the kennel boy a mo- 
 ment later, his eyes on something white 
 fading, fading in the distance. 
 
 "'E's 'ell, ain't 'e!" said Peter, gather- 
 104
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 ing up his reins. "Come on, 'oss! You 
 wouldn't let a little thing like that get 
 away from you, would you?" 
 
 Morning after morning from then on 
 they went forth, and little by little the 
 thirty minutes were increased until at last 
 Dumb-Bell could do the full three hours 
 at top speed, wolf down his meal that 
 night, and ask for more. 
 
 According to science, fatigue produces 
 a toxin. When an animal is overworked 
 he cannot throw this off. The poison dulls 
 the nerves of his stomach and plays havoc 
 with his appetite. Peter knew nothing of 
 science, but he scanned a tin plate anx- 
 iously every evening. When, after the 
 full three hours, it was licked to mirror 
 brightness 
 
 "'E's ready," said Peter, "to beat any- 
 body's dog!" 
 
 Meanwhile the field trial world divided 
 a 105
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 over this meeting of champions. Pointer 
 men prayed, in private, for big slashing, 
 smashing Windem Bang. In public they 
 admitted that perhaps the Brookfield set- 
 ter had a shade in nose and bird sense, 
 but for courage and headlong brilliancy 
 there was "nothing to it" but the pointer. 
 Furthermore, since Gregory had allowed 
 his adversary to name the place for the 
 meeting, the owner of the pointer had of 
 course chosen North Dakota, the home of 
 the prairie chicken. The country and the 
 birds were an old story to the pointer, 
 whereas the Brookfield dog was more 
 familiar with the haunts of quail. 
 
 Setter men thought of the white ghost 
 with his uncanny nose, and smiled. Their 
 champion was to have a month's work on 
 the prairies before the battle. 
 
 "And," said Scott Benson, "if they just 
 let him go, in a month he'll be an old 
 106
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 friend to every chicken from the Gulf to 
 Canada." 
 
 On one subject, however, everyone was 
 in accord. Dog men all over the land 
 had learned to hate the owner of the 
 pointer. For years he had bred dogs 
 good dogs, they regretfully admitted 
 and at last fate had breathed the spirit 
 of a champion into one of them. Fur- 
 thermore, he was a great champion. This 
 they admitted, also, but with more than 
 regrets. That Emmett Fry should own 
 such a dog was beyond mere regretting 
 it was a calamity. 
 
 Chuck Sellers relieved himself on the 
 subject with a few well-chosen words. 
 
 "There's more class in the tip of that 
 pointer's tail," he said, "than Emmett's 
 got in his whole blame carcass." 
 
 Since the tail of Champion Windem 
 Bang was needle pointed, this was re- 
 107
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 peated broadcast and found much favor. 
 
 All this was man's talk, and not for 
 women's ears, so the mistress of Brook- 
 field heard no word of it ; but she felt cold 
 steel in the air when Emmett Fry was 
 mentioned, and it puzzled her. 
 
 "You don't like this man Fry, do you?" 
 she said to Gregory one morning, and felt 
 his arm stiffen within her own. 
 
 "I don't know him," said the master of 
 Brookfield shortly. "Are you sure you 
 want to go out to this match, Chief? It's 
 a hard trip." 
 
 "I'm going," she stated. "I've never 
 seen Dumb-Bell run, you know, and this 
 may be my last chance. . . . Why don't 
 you like him?" she asked, returning to the 
 charge. 
 
 "I don't know him," he repeated. "How 
 can I like him or dislike him?" 
 
 She knew this to be an evasion, but let 
 108
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 it pass, and questioned Peter the next day. 
 
 "What sort of a man is Mr. Fry?" she 
 asked him. 
 
 Peter was dusting a puppy with flea 
 powder. He straightened up and spoke 
 with difficulty, for flea powder is as cer- 
 tain in its action as snuff. 
 
 " A-choo-o !" he said. "Just plain skunk 
 . . . a-choo-o! . . . beggin' your par- 
 don!" 
 
 "What has he done, what does he do, 
 that makes you say that, Peter?" she 
 questioned. 
 
 "Well," said Peter, "I'll tell you one 
 thing he done. Six years ago, come No- 
 vember, Emmett Fry starts a pointer 
 derby, by Damascus out of Old Rose, in 
 the Continental. 'E was a nice-goin' pup 
 but a leetle gun-shy just flinchy-like. 'E 
 run a good 'eat an' it was between 'im 
 an' a young bitch by Gladstone in the 
 109
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 finals. The judges were 'ard put to it for 
 a decision, but they noticed that Emmett 
 don't stand close to 'is pup when 'e fires. 
 
 ' 'At his next point, Mr. Fry, shoot 
 directly over your dog,' they tells Em- 
 mett, an' he done so. At the crack of the 
 gun the pup breaks for the woods, 'is tail 
 between 'is legs an* that lets 'im out. 
 
 "Well, Emmett goes into the woods 
 after 'is pup, an' next we 'ear 'is gun 
 both barrels. When 'e comes out of the 
 woods, . . . 'e's alone. 'An',' says Em- 
 mett, * 'e'll not run away from a gun no 
 
 more.' 
 
 Peter caught up the can of flea powder, 
 and bent abruptly to his work. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mrs. Gregory. "The beast 
 . . . the beast!" 
 
 And presently the master of Brookfield 
 looked up from his desk into a white and 
 quivering face. 
 
 110
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 "Good Lord, Chief!" he said, "what's 
 happened?" 
 
 "You knew about it all along!" she ac- 
 cused. "And let Dumb-Bell meet his dog 
 . . . a man like that! How could you 
 do such a thing! . . . How could you!" 
 
 "I've never met this man," the master 
 of Brookfield said slowly. "When he did 
 . . . what he did, I used what influence 
 I had to have his entries refused by all 
 field trial clubs in America. Since then 
 I have made it a point never to enter a 
 dog where he was a competitor. But now 
 it is a question of setter against pointer ; 
 and because I believe in the setter as the 
 greatest of all bird dogs, and many men 
 agree with me and look to my dog to 
 prove it, we owe it to them to beat this 
 pointer if we can. . . . Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 Ill
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "What about the thousand dollars 
 you may win from him?" 
 
 The master of Brookfield regarded her 
 gravely. Then the corners of his mouth 
 twitched ever so little. 
 
 "Why," he said, with a bow, "you may 
 have that, Chief." 
 
 She had him by the coat lapels in an 
 instant, and did her futile best to shake 
 him. 
 
 "I'll tear it up!" she said, between her 
 teeth. 
 
 "Indeed?" said Gregory. "And what 
 about that family on Rock Ridge who 
 haven't a shoe to their back, and the 
 lame man who needs a wooden leg or 
 an aeroplane or something, and the wom- 
 an who has delirium trem Excuse 
 me, it's her husband isn't it? And that 
 girl who should have her voice culti- 
 vated, and -er all the rest of 'em?" 
 112
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield knitted her 
 brows in thought. 
 
 "They won't get a cent of it!" she an- 
 nounced at last. "If Dumb-Bell wins it, 
 he will send it to the S. P. C. A!" 
 
 The hotel at Belmont, North Dakota, 
 was packed to bursting. Its occupants 
 lifted up their voices and discussed bird 
 dogs, past, present, and to come. The 
 noise was bewildering. From a little 
 distance it sounded like the roar of fall- 
 ing waters, and seemed as endless. 
 
 Back in the kennels it was compara- 
 tively quiet. Derbys might bay a neigh- 
 bor, old veterans might rustle the straw 
 as they dreamed of whirring birds; but 
 though the match between Brookfield 
 Dumb-Bell and Windem Bang was to 
 be run as a final to the Great Western 
 Trials, and a hundred dogs were all 
 113
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 about them, Peter spoke almost in a 
 whisper to Bill Ramsey as they exam- 
 ined the white ghost by lantern light. 
 
 "I don't like it!" said Peter. " 'E 
 never ate a bite. ... 'Is eyes don't look 
 
 
 
 good to me, neither." 
 
 "Pshaw, Pete!" said Ramsey. "There's 
 nothin' wrong with him. He knows 
 why he's here as well as you an' me. 
 He's excited, that's all. Why, look how 
 you passed up them ham an' eggs your- 
 self tonight! Let him alone let him 
 get his rest!" 
 
 "Feel 'is nose!" said Peter. "An' 
 why don't 'e lie down like 'e'd ought?" 
 
 Ramsey took Peter by the arm. 
 
 "Come on out of here !" he urged. "If 
 a big mutt was to keep a-rubbin' at your 
 nose you wouldn't go to sleep, neither. 
 He'll run his race if you let him alone. 
 If you mess with him all night Emmett'll 
 114
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 beat me tomorrow. I've got charge of 
 this dog . . . now, come on out of here!" 
 
 So Peter, with a last troubled look at 
 the suspiciously bright eyes of the Brook- 
 field champion, followed the handler 
 from the kennels; and Dumb-Bell 
 dropped his head on his paws to pass 
 the night in a twitching and uneasy 
 slumber. 
 
 A pale blue sky appeared next morn- 
 ing and hung above an endless rolling 
 stubble. Two months before this stubble 
 had been wheat, a golden guaranty that 
 North Dakota could put bread into the 
 mouths of half a continent. But the 
 gold had been garnered and now in its 
 place was a lesser metal, for the stubble 
 was heavy with frost and the rising sun 
 had turned it to a plain of glistening 
 silver. 
 
 Calm to majesty was this plain of sil- 
 115
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 ver, unruffled by the fact that it would 
 soon become a battlefield. The last day 
 of the Great Western Trials had ar- 
 rived; two champions would meet that 
 morning, and over the stubble would 
 prove the mettle of their sires. 
 
 When the sun was an hour high, black 
 dots appeared at the far edge of the 
 plain. Presently they became horsemen 
 hundreds of horsemen with a sprin- 
 kling of buggies, buckboards, and even 
 an automobile or so, strung about a 
 wagon from which came, now and then, 
 a beseeching whine. 
 
 This whine was the voice of Champion 
 Windem Bang, who gazed out through 
 the slats that penned him in and longed 
 to be away. 
 
 His small rival was quieter. The 
 white ghost knew what all these horse- 
 men meant; he knew what was expected 
 116
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 of him that day; but he knew that his 
 body ached, that his throat was dry, and 
 that the rolling stubble called but faintly 
 to him. The day before he had eaten a 
 piece of tainted meat no bigger than a 
 lump of sugar, and now it was better 
 to lie quietly in the soft straw than to 
 pit one's speed and nose against another 
 over those long, long miles. 
 
 So the gulf which never can be crossed, 
 between the human animal and his most 
 passionately devoted friend, was between 
 the little setter and fair play. One word 
 would have told these humans, one word 
 and yet it was denied him. He would 
 be judged by what he did that day, 
 without it. ... And so he lay in the 
 wagon and grinned a hopeless grin when 
 the big pointer yelped reproaches at 
 those about him, or scratched and bit 
 at the slats. 
 
 117
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 An iron-gray man on a big roan horse 
 drew rein at last. 
 
 "I think we might put them down 
 here, Frank," he said. "What time is 
 it?" 
 
 A man riding heside him nodded and 
 took out his watch. 
 
 "All right, Mr. Fry! All right, Mr. 
 Ramsey!" he called. "We'll let them go 
 at eight sharp that gives you five min- 
 utes." 
 
 It was only after a struggle that his 
 handler snapped the leash on Windem 
 Bang. When this was done, the pointer 
 soared out of the wagon with a yelp, and 
 bounded like a rubber ball to the end of 
 his tether. Emmett Fry threw his weight 
 against the leash and smiled. 
 
 Chuck Sellers saw the smile, and 
 leaned down confidentially from the sad- 
 dle. 
 
 118
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 "Better save some of that, Emmett!" 
 he advised. "You'll need it." 
 
 The handler looked up with a sneer. 
 
 "A hundred even on him!" he said. 
 
 "Got you!" said Chuck cheerfully. 
 "Come again!" 
 
 "Make it two!" said Fry. 
 
 "Got you!" Chuck repeated. "Are 
 you through?" But the pointer had 
 dragged his handler out of earshot, and 
 Chuck turned to Ramsey. "You heard 
 that, Bill?" he asked. 
 
 Ramsey nodded as he snapped the 
 leash on the white ghost. 
 
 "We'll give you a run for your 
 money," he promised, and led his dog to 
 the starting point. 
 
 With the feel of the stubble under- 
 foot, with the big pointer straining at 
 his leash beside him, Dumb-Bell's spirits 
 revived a little. He was better; there 
 119
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 was no doubt of that. The water that 
 Ramsey had given him a moment before 
 had cooled his throat. His legs felt 
 stronger, too. He even wanted to run. 
 He would run, that was sure! Fast 
 enough, perhaps, to beat an ordinary 
 dog. But Windem Bang, big, splendid 
 Windem Bang, was not an ordinary 
 dog. And in addition to the running the 
 white ghost must read the crisp wind 
 that sang across a thousand miles of 
 prairie, and miss no word of its mes- 
 sage. 
 
 The little setter lifted his head. His 
 nostrils quivered as they explored the 
 wind. Then he knew that his nose would 
 betray him. It was no longer the nose 
 of a champion, but a dull, uncertain 
 thing the kind with which ordinary 
 shooting dogs go slowly and make mis- 
 takes. As he heard the "Get away!" of 
 120
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 his handler, which is the field trial call 
 to battle, he grinned his hopeless grin. 
 
 When his leash is slipped, a field trial 
 dog races straight away. He is driven to 
 this first exultant rush by an overwhelm- 
 ing energy. A pair of high-class dogs 
 make this preliminary flight a trial of 
 pure speed. It was the custom of the 
 white ghost to give his rival fifty feet or 
 so and then sweep by him. 
 
 That Windem Bang could go like a 
 comet made no difference to him. Had 
 Dumb-Bell been himself, he would have 
 matched the pointer stride for stride, 
 with joy in his heart. But now his heels 
 had failed him and he called on the big 
 brain of Roderigo that was in his little 
 head. He let Windem Bang go on alone 
 into the far distance, while he shot away 
 to the left. 
 
 He saw a patch of green alfalfa as 
 9 121
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 he ran, and he headed for it. It was a 
 likely place for chickens ; there was a good 
 half mile of it and he went down the 
 lower edge, his head well up, as fast as 
 he could go. 
 
 But Windem Bang did not run blindly 
 long. He, too, had brains; a champion 
 always has. When he found himself 
 alone, he looked about him. Then he 
 caught the green of the alfalfa, and he 
 swung in a magnificent curve to strike 
 the lower edge, down wind. He was 
 moving like a race horse, directly behind 
 the ghost. At each terrific bound he 
 made he cut down the distance between 
 them. 
 
 Dumb-Bell heard him coming. He 
 must get wind of the covey somewhere 
 in the green alfalfa before the pointer 
 passed him! He put every ounce of 
 strength he had into his running. He 
 122
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 no longer heard the pointer. Goodl 
 He could still run, it seemed. Then he 
 heard, far away, another sound. It was 
 the spectators shouting. He turned his 
 head, and there was Windem Bang, on 
 the very spot where he himself had 
 passed ten seconds before, tense as steel, 
 as moveless as a stone. 
 
 There could be no mistaking what that 
 panther crouch of the big pointer meant. 
 From his eager lifted muzzle, to his stiff 
 and lancelike tail, every line of him said: 
 "Birds!" 
 
 Dumb-Bell's heart was bitter within 
 him as he whirled and acknowledged his 
 rival's find with an honor point. 
 
 "Missed 'em!" burst out a pointer man. 
 "Missed 'em clean! There's your setter 
 champion for you! Oh, mamma! Did 
 you see that Bang dog nail 'em?" 
 
 "He lie didn't d-do very well that 
 123
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 time, did he, Jim?" said the mistress of 
 Brookfield, as their buckboard swayed 
 and bounded toward the pointing dogs. 
 
 "No," said Gregory. "I don't under- 
 stand it. It may be a false point." 
 
 But it wasn't a false point. Emmett 
 Fry flushed a mighty bevy of prairie 
 chickens thirty feet ahead of Windem 
 Bang. They rose like one bird, and 
 sailed off in stately flight to scatter in 
 the stubble nearly a mile away. 
 
 The man on the roan horse kept his 
 eyes on the two champions. Neither 
 moved. 
 
 "Send them on, gentlemen!" he called 
 to the handlers. "We'll follow this covey 
 up. We'll let them work on singles for 
 a while." 
 
 Then followed a terrible half -hour for 
 Dumb-Bell. In the race to the scattered 
 covey he was beaten, and he saw the 
 124
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 pointer make a smashing find two hun- 
 dred feet ahead of him. Once more he 
 came to an honor point. Once more a 
 yell of delight went up from those who 
 favored Windem Bang. Once more the 
 setter men looked at each other and were 
 silent. 
 
 And now it was a race among a scat- 
 tered covey at top speed, for champions 
 must catch the faint scent of a lone bird 
 while going like a rocket; and this takes 
 nose, and nose, and nose, fine as a hair 
 and certain as a compass . . . Dumb- 
 Bell's was hot with fever. 
 
 So he drove his aching body along, 
 while Emmett Fry called, "Point, 
 Judge!" again and again, as his dog 
 cut down the singles with swift preci- 
 sion. 
 
 For Dumb-Bell the wind was a blank. 
 Had he slowed down he might have read 
 125
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 it, but he was a champion, and he must 
 make his points high-headed and like a 
 flash of lighting, or not at all. He 
 worked in a frenzy, his sides heaving, 
 his eyes shot with blood, only to honor 
 Windem Bang, who was going faster 
 than he, and with a razor nose. 
 
 "Why, Pete!" said Chuck Sellers at 
 last in wide amazement. "They're goin' 
 to beat us!" 
 
 Peter turned to him with a set and 
 stony face. 
 
 "Beat us!" he said. "An* why 
 wouldn't they beat us? 'E 'asn't no more 
 nose than I 'ave! I knowed it last night, 
 an' I let Bill talk me out of it! 'E's a 
 sick dog! An' we're tryin' to beat the 
 best pointer that ever lived, with 'im. I 
 ain't a trainer, I'm a bum! An* Bill! 
 . . . They'd ought to shoot 'im! 'E's 
 sick, I tell you . . . Vs sick this min- 
 126
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 ute!" He turned his horse and galloped 
 back to the master of Brookfield. 
 
 ' 'Ave him took up, sir!" he said. 
 " 'E's off away off 'e ain't got nothin'. 
 'Ave him took up!" 
 
 The master of Brookfield hesitated. 
 
 "It won't do, Peter," he said finally. 
 "We should have known that before they 
 started." 
 
 "/ knowed it!" said Peter. "I knowed 
 it last night! I'm a big slob beggin' 
 your pardon I ain't fit to 'andle 'untin' 
 dogs, let alone 'im! You can fire me to- 
 morrow, sir; but take the little dog up! 
 'E's sick we may be 'armin' of 'im!" 
 
 They had come to a halt while a 
 chicken was flushed to the credit of Win- 
 dem Bang. Peter's voice had risen to 
 a wail, and many heard what he had 
 said. 
 
 "That's right, Gregory!" called a 
 127
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 pointer man. "Take him up! He's got 
 no business with that kind of a dog. 
 He's sick, all right, and gettin' sicker! 
 . . . Take him up!" 
 
 The master of Brookfield felt a slen- 
 der hand creep into his own. He 
 squeezed it slightly, and smiled a grim 
 smile. 
 
 "He'll have to take a beating, Peter," 
 he said quietly. "Go on, driver!" 
 
 So Dumb-Bell took his beating for 
 half of the three hours that he must 
 run, and a fearful beating it was. For 
 an hour and thirty minutes he ran, gasp- 
 ing for air, slobbering at the mouth, 
 while his nose told him nothing. 
 
 Then as he passed a patch of ragweed 
 he caught a faint trace on the wind. He 
 turned like a flash and froze into a 
 statue. He had taken a desperate 
 chance of making a false point. He had 
 128
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 acted with the certainty of a good nose 
 when he was far from certain. He 
 grinned with anxiety as he waited for his 
 handler, while faint, very faint, came 
 that trace on the wind. 
 
 "Steady, boy!" said Ramsey. An in- 
 stant later twenty feathered bombs shot 
 up from the stubble and sailed away. 
 
 "Some find!" said Chuck Sellers, 
 brightening. "How does that suit you, 
 Pete?" 
 
 But Peter did not reply. He was 
 watching a white streak flash along the 
 stubble, neck and neck with Windem 
 Bang. 
 
 This was the turning of the tide. The 
 violent effort he had made on courage 
 alone was the little setter's salvation. 
 His pounding heart had at last cleared 
 his blood of the ptomaine that had 
 drugged him. 
 
 129
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 As he raced for the scattered covey 
 he felt a new vitality surge within him. 
 . . . Ten minutes more and Dumb-Bell 
 was himself again a white ghost with a 
 magic nose. 
 
 But Windem Bang was a great dog, 
 backed by a tremendous lead. Only a 
 miracle could save the day for Brook- 
 field. The white ghost knew this as well 
 as those who watched, and from that 
 moment he became a miracle in nose and 
 range and speed. Windem Bang was 
 still going like the wind few dogs could 
 have held him even. But now ahead of 
 him, always ahead of him, was a white 
 and fleeting thing that skimmed the stub- 
 ble with no apparent effort, and found 
 birds in all directions. 
 
 The big pointer was puzzled. For the 
 first time in his life he was being out- 
 paced, and he couldn't understand it. 
 130
 
 Dumb-Bell's Check 
 
 He had run rings around this little setter 
 until now! He would do it again, he 
 told himself then every sinew in his 
 body drank deep of his vitality while he 
 ran as he had never run before. 
 
 An hour went by, and Windem Bang 
 began to wonder. A shadow came and 
 dimmed the eager light in his eyes. The 
 shadow was fatigue, and it frightened 
 him. 
 
 He fled from it in a tremendous 
 burst of speed, found a bevy, and went 
 on. But the shadow grew deeper. It 
 was blotting out all the fire, all the bril- 
 liancy of his efforts. In nose and heels 
 and heart he felt it now, and he looked 
 anxiously ahead. Despair seized him as 
 he looked; for Brookfield Dumb-Bell 
 was going like a driven spirit, immune 
 from the weakness of flesh. 
 
 "Call in your dogs, gentlemen!" said 
 131
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 the man on the roan house. "They have 
 been down three hours." 
 
 In another moment he was the center 
 of a crowding mass of horsemen that 
 grew larger every instant. 
 
 "Who wins?" they howled. "Who 
 wins?" And many answered the ques- 
 tion themselves. 
 
 The man on the roan horse held up 
 his hand for silence, and obtained it. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he began, "the judges 
 have decided that this match, so far, is a 
 draw. We " He got no further. 
 
 "Draw! Hell! The setter couldn't 
 smell nothin' for two hours!" . . . "Two 
 hours! Forget it! Look what he done 
 all the last end! The setter wins!" . . . 
 "You're a liar!" . . . "Get down off 
 that horse an' say it again!" 
 
 At last quiet was restored. 
 
 "As I said before, gentlemen, this 
 132
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 match, as it now stands, is a draw. It 
 becomes a matter of stamina. The 
 judges ask that the dogs go on until we 
 can render a decision 1" 
 
 "Why, certainly," said the master of 
 Brookfield when Peter brought him the 
 word. 
 
 But Emmet t Fry faced the judges 
 with the panting Windem Bang on leash 
 beside him. 
 
 "Do you think these are huntin' dogs?" 
 he inquired. "Do you want 'em to go 
 all day? This was a three-hour match. 
 I've run it and won it, and I want a 
 decision now! I won't turn this dog 
 loose again for nobody!" 
 
 The man on the roan horse looked at 
 Emmett coldly. 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Fry," he said. "If 
 you refuse to go on, we shall decide now 
 in favor of the setter." 
 133
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 The handler's face became gray with 
 rage. He took a step forward, opened 
 his lips, closed them again, and turned 
 abruptly to Bill Ramsey. 
 
 "I'm ready whenever you are," he said 
 hoarsely. 
 
 Ramsey stooped and cast off his dog. 
 
 "Get away!" he said, with a wave of 
 his hand and the white ghost was gone. 
 
 An instant later Windem Bang flung 
 himself across the stubble at the top of 
 his clip, and the battle was on again. 
 
 The short rest had helped the big 
 pointer. He went away with a rush. 
 For twenty minutes more he went, a 
 splendid thing to see. Then suddenly a 
 red darkness fell about him. It was hot 
 and suffocating; it filled his nostrils so 
 that his breath came in struggling gasps. 
 
 It was hard to go on in this darkness. 
 But champions must go on and on until 
 134
 
 Dumb -Belt's Check 
 
 they hear a whistle. He went on until 
 a weight, an immense weight, seemed to 
 fall across his loins. It was not fair to 
 make him carry such a weight, he 
 thought, and faltered in his stride. . . , 
 The voice of his handler came like the 
 lash of a whip: 
 
 "You Bang! Go on!" it said. 
 
 Yes, he must go on. He had forgot- 
 ten for a moment. He saw a swale ahead 
 and to the right. Its edge was dark with 
 ragweed, and he plunged toward it. The 
 swale was half a mile away, and he called 
 on the last of his strength to reach it. 
 He was nearly there when a white flash 
 shot from the left, cut in ahead of him, 
 and stiffened into marble. Windem 
 Bang lurched to a point in acknowledg- 
 ment, swaying where he stood. 
 
 This was the end. As the birds were 
 flushed, the pointer staggered on he 
 135
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 didn't know where. The voice of his 
 handler had lost its meaning. He must 
 go on, he knew that. So he went in an 
 aimless circle. 
 
 The man on the roan horse rode for- 
 ward to the pointer's handler. His eyes 
 were full of pity. 
 
 "You have a great dog, Mr. Fry," he 
 said, "but call him in, please." 
 
 "Damn his heart . . . damn his yel- 
 low heart!" said Emmett Fry, and blew 
 his whistle. 
 
 Windem Bang swung toward the 
 sound of it, and came in. He was too 
 far gone to dodge the loaded butt of the 
 heavy dog whip, and he went down with- 
 out a sound when it descended across 
 his back. Nor did he make much of an 
 outcry as it descended again and again. 
 Only a moan came from him. He was 
 too exhausted to do more. . . . 
 136
 
 Dumb -Bell's Check 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield gave a 
 choking cry, flung herself from the 
 buckboard, and rushed forward like a 
 fury. Emmett Fry heard her coming, 
 and looked up blindly. 
 
 "The dirty hound quit!" he said. "He 
 had it won . . . the dirty hound . . . 
 but he quit!" 
 
 "You vile beast!" flamed the mistress 
 of Brookfield. "Don't you dare touch 
 him again!" She dropped in the stub- 
 ble beside Windem Bang, throwing her 
 coat over him as she did so. 
 
 The master of Brookfield lifted her 
 up. 
 
 "This won't do, Chief," he said, and 
 all but carried her to the buckboard. 
 
 "Oh, Jim!" she pleaded. "He tried so 
 hard!" 
 
 Then a thumping sound, followed by a 
 moaning whimper, came to her. She 
 10 137
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 covered her ears and sank in a heap to 
 the floor of the buckboard. 
 
 "If Dumb-Bell had only lost!" she 
 sobbed. "If Dumb-Bell had only 
 lost. . . ." 
 
 "Never mind, little Chief!" said the 
 master of Brookfield. "Fll take care of 
 that." 
 
 He strode back until he faced the 
 owner of Windem Bang. 
 
 "I have taken a fancy to your dog 
 . . . " he managed to say, but could 
 get no further. Suddenly he tore a 
 checkbook from his pocket and wrote 
 with a shaking hand. He held out a 
 signed check for the other to see. "Fill 
 it in quick for God's sake!" he said. 
 
 No one will ever know what Cham- 
 pion Windem Bang cost the master of 
 Brookfield. He said no word to any 
 138
 
 Dumb-Bell's Check 
 
 man as he led the first pointer he had 
 ever owned to the buckboard. But as 
 he drove away a pair of dog eyes, trust- 
 ing, faithful, looked up into his face, and 
 a slim arm went about his neck. So, 
 perhaps, everything considered, he did 
 not pay too much. 
 
 A few days later the secretary of a 
 certain benevolent society received the 
 following letter: 
 
 Being heartily in sympathy with the work 
 you do, it gives me great pleasure to inclose 
 my check for one thousand dollars. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 Champion BROOKFIELD DUMB-BELL.
 
 A PERMANENT INTRUDER
 
 IV 
 
 A PERMANENT INTRUDER 
 
 last thirty miles had been slid 
 over somehow, and the car, 
 sheathed in the mud of five counties, 
 shot between brick gateposts to decent 
 footing at last. I went into high gear 
 for the first time in hours, it seemed to 
 me with a sigh of relief. The mile spin 
 up the graveled drive was a humming 
 flash, and soon I was getting out of my 
 coat in the dusky paneled hall which 
 bisects the house, clean as a knife cut, 
 from front to back. 
 
 The man disappeared with my bags 
 
 after telling me that Mr. and Mrs. Greg- 
 
 ory were out on the place somewhere 
 
 "huntin* mushrooms." I went to the 
 
 143
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 dining-room, poured myself a drink of 
 raw Scotch, and then drifted, as one 
 does at Brookfield, to the living-room 
 with its big open fire. I was halfway 
 across the room when there came a 
 hoarse rumble from the fireplace that 
 nailed my feet to the floor. 
 
 "That-a-boy?" I said cheerfully, and 
 took a step toward the fireplace. 
 
 There was another cavernous rumble. 
 
 "Now see here," I said with authority. 
 "You stop this nonsense." 
 
 A gargoyle head was lifted from the 
 bricks before the fireplace, a pair of 
 bloodshot eyes were rolled in my direc- 
 tion and the rumble ceased. The eyes 
 inspected me lazily and I was glad to 
 note this without malice. Presently 
 thump, thump went a clublike tail on 
 the bricks. At the invitation I ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 144
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 He was an astonishing thing to find 
 in his present surroundings. He was 
 huge, he was a tawny yellow, he had 
 lost an ear. He had been arrived at 
 through the haphazard matings of bull 
 terriers, English bulls, mastiffs, and 
 heaven knows what else. Yet here he 
 was, stretched comfortably before the 
 living-room fire at Brookfield, where 
 chickens, pigeons, cats, cattle, horses, 
 and, above all, dogs, show an impeccable 
 line of ancestors who made no steps 
 aside. 
 
 He was a mystery, a friendly mystery, 
 after that first deep-throated challenge, 
 and my curiosity grew as I examined 
 the unlovely bulk of him. I wondered 
 in what disreputable proceedings he had 
 lost his ear. I wondered why four of 
 his lower front teeth were gone. Most 
 of all I wondered at his serene content- 
 145
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 ment; at his air of being perfectly at 
 home. 
 
 At last I pushed his bullet head aside, 
 pulled his one good ear, gave him a solid 
 thump on the ribs, and took my way to 
 the kennels, and Peter, for an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "Peter," I said, while shaking hands, 
 "why is that" I hesitated "bulldog al- 
 lowed in the living-room?" 
 
 Peter took his stumpy fingers from 
 mine and grinned. 
 
 "You 'ad 'ard work gettin' it out, 
 didn't you?" he said. "Oh, 'e belongs 
 'ere all right. 'Aven't you seen the 
 people?" 
 
 "No," I replied. "They don't know 
 I've come. He looks like bad medicine. 
 I should think you'd be afraid he'd take 
 hold of one of the setters." 
 
 "I was," said Peter thoughtfully "at 
 146
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 first. I put up a 'ell of a row about 'im. 
 'E come 'ere all along of horchids." 
 
 "Orchids!" I repeated. "What have 
 orchids got to do with it?" 
 
 Peter indicated a sawhorse. 
 
 * 'Ave a seat," he invited, and wadded 
 a startling handful of fine cut into his 
 mouth. 
 
 "You know," he began, after a neces- 
 sary pause, "the missus was all for raisin' 
 these 'ere horchids awhile back?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Well," said Peter, "we 'ad our trou- 
 bles till it was over. Whilst we was 
 goin' through this horchid business every- 
 thing else was forgot. Why, she 
 wouldn't come 'ere once a month, an* 
 my best litters by Dumb-Bell bein' 
 whelped at the time. I'd go up to the 
 'ouse after breakfast and I'd say: 'Beg- 
 gin' your pardon, mem, but Sue Whit- 
 147
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 stone 'as nine grand ones by the little 
 dog." 
 
 " 'Yes,' she'd say; 'that's fine, Peter. 
 I'll come down in a little while just 
 as soon as I see Jerry.' 
 
 "Then she'd start for the green'ouses, 
 an' 'er an' ole Jerry 'ud 'ave their 'eads 
 together the rest of the day. 
 
 "For all Jerry's sweatin' an' stewin', 
 though, an' 'er an' 'im readin' books an' 
 such, it seemed like the horchids was too 
 shifty for 'em. Jerry 'as been a good 
 gardener in 'is time, but 'e 'adn't never 
 messed with horchids an' 'e couldn't seem 
 to get the 'ang of 'em somehow. 
 
 "Right in the midst of it comes wood- 
 cock season, an' I got the missus' Lamp- 
 ton 20 oiled up nice for 'er. The day 
 before the season opened the mister tells 
 me we'll go over to the big 'ollow after 
 cock next mornin'. 
 
 148
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 'We'll take Bang and Beau,' 'e says. 
 'We'll start at five o'clock.' 
 
 ' 'I've been workin' a pair of young 
 Dumb-Bells on cock,' I says; 'an' while 
 they're not finished yet they 'ave sweet 
 noses on 'em that Bang sets a 'ot pace 
 for the missus.' 
 
 * 'She's not going,' 'e says. 'She's too 
 busy to get away.' 
 
 'Well, I 'ardly expected it,' I says. 
 'She 'asn't looked in this direction for a 
 .month.' 
 
 'Try flowers, Peter,' 'e says, grinnin* 
 at me. 'Why don't you plant some nice 
 geraniums along the runways?' 
 
 "Me an' the mister 'unted cock alone 
 all that week an' the next. One noon 
 we're 'aving a bite at the 'ickory grove 
 spring. 
 
 ' 'Ow long now,' I says, 'do you think 
 it'll last?' 
 
 149
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "'Last?' 'e says. 'Why, ten days 
 more, of course.' 
 
 " 'I don't mean the season/ I says. 'I 
 mean horchids.' 
 
 " 'E was just reachin' for a sandwich, 
 but 'e didn't take it. Instead 'e rolls 
 in the leaves. 
 
 " 'Don't ask me/ 'e says, settin' up 
 with dead leaves in 'is 'air. 'She's sent 
 to Scotland for an expert. 'E'll be 'ere 
 soon, I fancy. Then we'll see some 
 regular horchids. Cheer up, Peter; per- 
 haps she'll let us wear one now and 
 then.' 
 
 "Well, it was so. One day 'ere comes 
 a specimin up the drive it's a long- 
 necked Scotchman with reddish 'air like. 
 'E 'as a shiny black 'amper in one 'and 
 an' a bundle tied with rope in the other. 
 At 'is 'eels was a yellow-'ided butcher's 
 bull as big as 'e was ugly. 
 150
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 'Where,' I says to 'im, 'did you find 
 little Buttercup?' 
 
 ' 'Mon,' 'e says, 'will ye tell Missus 
 MacGregor I'm koom?" 
 
 "'I will that,' I says. Til mention 
 both of you to 'er. Stay 'ere till I'm 
 back/ 
 
 "I found the missus in a green'ouse. 
 'Er sleeves was rolled up an' she 'ad 
 loam on 'er 'ands an' face. 
 
 ' 'Mem,' I says, 'your horchid man 'as 
 come with something that'll 'ave to be 
 got off the place in a 'urry.' 
 
 1 'Bring him 'ere to me, Peter,' she 
 says; an' I done so. But first I 'ad 'im 
 shut 'is dog in a runway. 
 
 "When we got to the green'ouse I 
 points inside, an' Scotty an' 'is 'amper 
 an' 'is bundle all goes in. 'E took a 
 look at the missus. 
 
 1 'Lassie,' 'e says, c whur's your lady?' 
 151
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "The missus gave me a look out of the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 " 'Won't I do?' she says. 
 
 "I must say this Scotty, for all 'is 
 long neck, surprised me. But then 'e 
 'ad red 'air. 'E put down 'is 'amper 
 an' 'is bundle. 
 
 " 'Aye, lass/ 'e says, 'ye'll do, though 
 soap an' watter would na harm ye.' 
 With that 'e steps to the missus an' 
 takes a kiss at 'er. An' as I'm a livin' 
 man she never moved an inch. 
 
 " 'Thank you,' she says. 'Now what 
 else can I do for you? I'm Mrs. Greg- 
 ory.' 
 
 "Scotty looked at 'er close. 'Er rings 
 was layin' on the window edge where 
 she'd heen diggin', an' the flash of 'em 
 in the sunlight caught 'is eye. It 'it 
 'im all at once. Man, I'm tellin' you it 
 was 'ard to tell where 'is face stopped 
 152
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 and 'is 'air begun. Next 'e grabbed up 
 'is 'amper an' 'is bundle an' out an' away 
 'e went. 
 
 ' 'E climbed the stone wall at the 
 edge of the south lawn an' 'is coat tails 
 goin' over it was the last we ever saw 
 of 'im. The missus come to the green- 
 'ouse door an' watched 'im streak it across 
 the lawn. 
 
 ' 'E seems to be going, Peter/ she 
 says, an' 'er eyes was dancin' in 'er 
 'ead. 
 
 ' 'E 'as that appearance, mem,' I 
 says. 
 
 "She looked anxious all of a sudden. 
 
 " ' 'E'll surely come back, won't 'e?' 
 she says. *I paid his passage from Aber- 
 deen/ 
 
 ' 'Beggin' your pardon, mem/ I says, 
 'but just at the wall there 'e didn't strike 
 me, take it all in all, like a person who 
 11 153
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 'ad 'opes of returning.' Then I remem- 
 bered something. 
 
 " 'Oh, Lord!' I says. ' 'E's went an' 
 left Buttercup.' 
 
 " 'Buttercup?' says the missus. 'What's 
 Buttercup?' 
 
 " 'If the horchids,' I says, 'could get 
 on by themselves, mem, whilst you're 
 walkin' down to the kennels,' I says, 'you 
 can see for yourself.' 
 
 "She 'adn't nothing to say to that an' 
 we started for the kennels. 
 
 ' 'Peter,' she says all of a sudden, 'I 
 'aven't treated you very well lately. I'm 
 sorry.' 
 
 'Who am I to complain, mem?' I 
 says. 
 
 ' 'I'm going for woodcock tomorrow,' 
 she says. 'But, Peter,' she says, 'this 
 mustn't get out, you know I'd never 
 'ear the last of it.'
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 "We'd got to the runways by now. 
 Buttercup was in No. 4 an* I 'eaded 
 for it. 
 
 ' 'Ave no fear of me, mem/ I says. 
 'But,' I says, stoppin' at the runway 
 gate, 'what's to be done with 'im? 'E'U 
 need a lot of explaininY 
 
 "Buttercup was settin' on 'is 'unkers, 
 lookin' mournful an' lettin' a kind of 
 low thunder come off 'is chest. 
 
 ! 'Eavens, what a brute!' says the 
 missus. 'Where did 'e come from?' 
 
 " ' 'E belonged,' I says, 'to our late 
 friend from Scotland. 'E don't seem to 
 like the climate 'ere, does 'e?' 
 
 " 'This is dreadful, Peter,' she says. 
 'What'll we do with 'im?' 
 
 " 'Give him away to somebody,' I says, 
 'for a pet.' 
 
 " 'Peter!' she says. 'Open that gate!' 
 'Yes, mem,' I says, an' put my 'and 
 155
 
 Dumb -Bell of JBroottfield 
 
 to the gate latch. With that Buttercup 
 goes plumb crazy. 'E let out a roar 
 'an 'it the gate like a tornado. 
 
 " 'Oh, that's the way you feel about 
 it, is it?' I says. Then I went to the 
 carpenter shop and got me a piece of 
 lead pipe about two foot long. 
 
 " 'What are you goin' to do, Peter?' 
 says the missus when I'm back. 
 
 " 'I'm goin' in,' I says, 'an* explain 
 about 'is disposition to 'im.' 
 
 ' 'No, no,' she says. 'Just let 'im 
 alone for a while. Get water to 'im 
 somehow, then drive to town as fast as 
 you can and find 'is master. If you 
 find him, telephone me.' 
 
 "I done what she said, but I couldn't 
 find 'ide nor 'air of Scotty until I 
 thought of the junction a mile this side 
 of town. I drove out there, an' the man 
 at the tower told me Scotty 'ad climbed 
 156
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 the noon train goin' east when she 
 stopped for water. 
 
 "Well, that left Buttercup on our 
 'ands. I was for puttin' a charge of 
 shot in 'is ugly 'ead, but the missus 
 wouldn't 'ear of it. She says that Scotty 
 may send for 'im. 
 
 * 'An' suppose he does/ I says. 
 'Who'll get 'im out of there an' ship 
 'im?' 
 
 ' 'I thought you were a dog trainer,' 
 says the missus. 
 
 ' 'I am,' I says; 'I'm just that. But 
 I'm no lion tamer. An' then suppose 
 'e don't send for 'im will 'e live an' die 
 in a runway?' 
 
 ' 'No,' she says; 'I'm going to 'andle 
 'im myself. 'E'll be fond of me in a 
 month, Peter.' 
 
 "I done all I could to change 'er mind, 
 but she wouldn't listen, an' she tells me 
 157
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 not to feed Buttercup nothin' that day. 
 
 "The next morning she's 'ere bright 
 an' early with a package of meat. The 
 dog is back in 'is kennel an' all you can 
 see of 'im is 'is green eyes shinin', but you 
 can 'ear 'im easy enough, if you go up 
 to the gate. 
 
 "The missus stands by the runway an* 
 begins a conversation with 'im. 
 
 "'What's the matter?' says the 
 missus. 'Lonesome?' 
 
 ' 'Gr-r-r-r-rh !" says Buttercup. 
 
 ' 'Come out an' get acquainted,' says 
 the missus. 
 
 "Gr-r-r-rh!' says Buttercup; an* 
 that's the way it goes. 
 
 'You want 'im out of there, mem?' 
 I says after a while. 
 
 " 'Yes,' she says. 'I'd like to have 'im 
 come 'ere to the fence.' 
 
 ! 'That can be arranged,' I says. I 
 158
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 stepped up to the gate an' rattled the 
 catch, an' 'e come out all right. 'E 
 kep' comin' too, till 'e 'it the gate, an' 'e 
 tried to tear it down when 'e got there. 
 
 "The missus flinched back a step or 
 two. I didn't blame 'er neither. 
 
 ' 'Better let me put a charge of shot 
 in 'im an' get it over with, mem,' I 
 says. 
 
 "But she looks at me as pleased as 
 Punch. 
 
 " 'Why, Peter/ she says, 'I wouldn't 
 miss it for anything. Isn't he splendid! 
 It's just what you said it was lion tam- 
 ing.' 
 
 "She throws the meat over the fence, 
 tells me not to feed the dog, an' goes up 
 to the 'ouse. Anybody could see she 
 was 'aving the time of 'er life. 
 
 "She comes every day for a week with 
 meat, or dog cakes, or something, an' 
 159
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 puts in an hour with Buttercup; but it 
 never fazed 'im. 'E 'ad the worst dis- 
 position on 'im I ever saw. She'd set 
 by the gate an' call 'im a lamb an' such, 
 an' 'im ragin' inside with 'is back like a 
 'airbrush. 
 
 "Despite what she'd told me, she tells 
 the whole business to the mister, an' 
 never warned me neither. So when 'e 
 asks me about Buttercup I horiginates 
 'ow the horchid man, not likin' the place, 
 'ad left without 'is dog. 
 
 " 'Why didn't 'e like it 'ere?' 'e says 
 when I'm done. 
 
 ""E didn't say,' I says. ' 'E just 
 left 'urriedly.' 
 
 ' 'Is eyes crinkled up the way they 
 do when 'e's tickled. 
 
 "''Urriedly, eh?' 'e says. 'I think 
 that describes it. Talk some more, 
 Peter; I like to 'ear you.' 
 160
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 ' 'She's told you,' I says. 'An' never 
 let me know.' 
 
 'Well, anyway,' 'e says, *I think 
 we're through with horchids. But be 
 careful, Peter; lion taming is all right 
 if it isn't overdone, you understand?' 
 
 "I shows 'im the butt of a thirty-eight 
 stickin' out of my 'ip pocket. 
 
 ' 'If the fence should 'appen to bust,' 
 I says, 'we'll lose a lion round 'ere sud- 
 den.' 
 
 ' 'Exactly,' 'e says, an' goes over to 
 the cattle barns. 
 
 "Well, the lion tamin' goes on as usual 
 for a week or so more, an' then 'er work 
 begun to tell. Buttercup got so' 'e be- 
 gun to look for 'er when ten o'clock 
 came, which was the time she always 
 showed up. 
 
 ' 'E'd give 'er a growl or two just to 
 show 'e 'adn't lost 'is voice, but 'e left 
 161
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 the gate alone an' 'e begun to listen to 
 what she 'ad to say. 
 
 "One day she 'olds a piece of meat in 
 'er 'and an' pokes it through the fence. 
 'E looks at it an' then looks away like 
 'e 'asn't no interest in meat. 
 
 " 'Come on !' she says. * You know you 
 want it.' 
 
 " 'Gr-r-r-rh!' 'e says, an' took another 
 look at the meat. 
 
 "They argued about it for a while, but 
 'e wouldn't touch it. Next day she done 
 the same thing, an' at last 'e come up 
 careful, grabbed the meat, takes it back 
 in the runway an' drops it. 
 
 'Very good !' she says. 'But never 
 snatch ; it's not polite. Aren't you going 
 to eat it?' 
 
 ' 'E smelled it an' then ate it an' come 
 back for more. I don't think 'e ever 
 growled at 'er after that. 
 162
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 " 'When 'e wags 'is tail, Peter, I'm 
 going in,' she says, an' that's what she 
 done. She 'ad fed 'im by 'and for quite 
 a while. Then one morning she was 
 late an' 'e stood at the fence lookin' up 
 the drive toward the 'ouse. After a 
 while 'e give a whine or two, an' all of 
 a sudden 'is tail begun to go. I looked 
 up the drive an' 'ere she come. 
 
 ' 'E stood up on 'is 'ind legs pawin' 
 at the gate when she got there, 'is tail 
 as busy as a bee. 
 
 ' 'Good morning, Big Boy!' she says. 
 An' before ever I knowed what she was 
 at she opened the gate an' stepped in. 
 I 'ollered an' run for it, but she shut 
 it in my face. 
 
 " 'You stay outside with your fine 
 large revolver,' she says. I didn't know 
 she 'ad noticed the gun till then. 
 
 "She goes to feedin' 'im by 'and, a 
 163
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 piece at a time. 'E grabbed at the first 
 one, an' I'm tellin' you now she give 
 'im a slap on the nose. 
 
 " 'Table manners !' she says, an' 'e took 
 the rest more careful. When 'e'd ate it 
 all she 'ad me get 'er a chair. Then 
 she sets an' talks to 'im, an' after a while 
 'e puts 'is ugly mug in 'er lap. 
 
 "Well, that ended the lion tamin'. 
 But 'e 'ad to be shut up for fear 'e'd 
 kill a real dog for us, an' the missus 
 took 'im out on leash every day. She'd 
 go way over in the fields with 'im an* 
 let 'im run there, an' I will say 'e minded 
 'er good. 
 
 "I J ated the sight of 'im at the ken- 
 nels, more especial when dog men came 
 to see my stuff. Chuck Sellers, 'e visited 
 me once, an' I was goin' down the run- 
 ways with 'im. 
 
 ! 'This,' I says, pointin' to a dog we'd 
 164
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 just brought over, 'is the Duke of Kent. 
 We himported 'im for an outcross on 
 the Roderigo blood. 'Andsome, ain't 
 'e?' 
 
 'Yes/ says Chuck, an* looks over in 
 the next runway where the big mongrel 
 was kep.' 'What you goin' to do with 
 Count Cesspool?' 'e says. 'Raise little 
 'ippopotamuses ?' 
 
 "I got so I 'ated the big slob like a 
 skunk, but the missus wouldn't get rid 
 of 'im. She says that Scotty may send 
 for 'im; but that wasn't it. You see 'e 
 would 'ave bit a leg off any but 'er 
 that monkeyed with 'im, an* she knowed 
 it an' it tickled 'er. 
 
 : 'E 'ad been on the place three 
 months or so when one day 'ere comes a 
 man from the cattle barns on the run. 
 
 ' 'Get a gun quick an* come on!' he 
 'oilers. 'The Regent is loose.' 
 165
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 " 'E meant Cordova Regent. You've 
 'card of 'im, I expect the worst Jer- 
 sey bull that ever stood on four 
 feet. 
 
 " 'That's a fine business,' I says. 'Who 
 let 'im loose?' 
 
 " 'We tried to put another ring in 'is 
 nose an' 'e broke the ropes,' 'e says. 
 "Urry up!' 
 
 "I grabbed an automatic from the ken- 
 nel gun rack with a 'andful of shells, an' 
 started for the barns. As I went down 
 the runways I banged into an open gate. 
 It was Buttercup's runway, so 'e was 
 out with the missus somewhere, an' I 
 cussed 'im an' run on. 
 
 "I run through the dairy 'ouse, 
 thinkin' to go out the back way an' save 
 time. Well, the back door was locked, 
 'eaven knows why, so I come out again 
 an' went round. 
 
 166
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 "At the barnyard was the men, some 
 up on sheds, some on the straw stack, 
 an' one or two on the harn. They 'ad 
 clubs an' pitchforks an' such^but I didn't 
 see nobody on the ground. 
 
 "There was a panel of the barnyard 
 fence tore down, an' the Regent was 
 trottin' across the fields toward a bunch 
 of cows, shakin' 'is big black 'ead an* 
 bellerin'. 
 
 "Then something came up out of the 
 'ollow just ahead of the Regent. It was 
 the missus an' she 'ad her back to 'im, an' 
 then I lost my mind. 
 
 "'Run, mem!' I says. 'For God's 
 sake, run!' I whispered it, that's what I 
 done, an' 'er a 'alf mile away. 
 
 "The Regent put down 'is 'ead when 
 
 'e saw 'er, gave a roar, an' started. She 
 
 'ad stooped down for something she told 
 
 afterward she 'ad seen a four-leaf clover 
 
 167
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 but she 'card 'im an' straightened up. 
 Then she tried to run. 
 
 "Do you 'appen to know 'ow fast a 
 bull can move? I didn't until then. She 
 might as well 'ave stood still in 'er tracks. 
 
 "Just about as the bull 'it 'er, Butter- 
 cup come up over the bank at the brook. 
 'E 'ad been diggin' at a ground 'og 'ole 
 or something, an' is 'head an' chest was 
 covered with mud. 
 
 "The Regent seemed to strike the 
 missus fair that's the way it looked, 
 any'ow. Man, it was 'orrible! The fact 
 is, 'is left 'orn went through 'er skirt, 
 whirled her in the air like, an' tore it 
 clean off of 'er. 'E never touched 'er 
 else. 
 
 "The Regent stopped an' turned to 
 come back, but 'e didn't get far. 'E 
 'ad no more than turned, I'll say to you, 
 when the dog 'ad 'im by the nose. 
 168
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 "I don't know 'ow long it took for 
 me to get to where they were long 
 enough. The Regent would swing 'is 
 'ead in the air, then bring it down an* 
 batter Buttercup against the ground. 
 I was 'opin' the dog would 'ave enough 
 life left in 'im to 'old 'is grip until I 
 come, an* 'e done it, although the Regent 
 got 'im under 'is feet at the last. 
 
 "As I come up the missus got on 'er 
 knees she'd been lyin' still till then. 
 
 "'Shoot quick!' she says. "E's 
 killin' 'im!' An' I done so. 
 
 "Well, sir, when the missus tells me 
 she ain't 'urt, I tried to make that dog 
 let go the dead bull's nose; but 'e 
 wouldn't think of it. 'E 'ad 'is jaws an' 
 eyes shut tight an' 'e didn't open neither 
 of 'em. 
 
 "At last the missus tries what she can 
 do. She puts 'er 'and on 'is 'ead. 
 13 169
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "'Let go, Big Boy!' she says. 'It's 
 all over.' She keeps talkin' to 'im, an' 
 after a while 'e lets go an' rolls on 'is 
 side. 
 
 " 'E lay there very limp, one ear gone 
 an' bleedin' from the mouth. One of 
 the men gets 'is 'at full of water from 
 the brook an' the missus pours it over 
 Buttercup's 'ead, an' then bathes 'is 
 muzzle. 
 
 "I got 'er skirt where the Regent 'ad 
 tossed it an' brought it to 'er. 
 
 ' 'Don't you want this, mem?' I says. 
 'You can wrap it round you like.' 
 
 'What difference does it make?' she 
 says. ' 'E's going to die, Peter.' 
 
 ' 'Ow do you know, mem?' I says. 
 'We'll carry 'im up to the kennels an' 
 'ave a vet take a look at 'im.' 
 
 "'What a fool I am!' she says. 'Of 
 course. 'Ave Felix go for Doctor Slos- 
 170
 
 A Permanent Intruder 
 
 son as fast as 'e can. Tell 'im to take 
 the roadster.' 
 
 'Yes, mem/ I says, an* the men car- 
 ried the dog to the stables whilst I went 
 to 'ustle Felix off. 
 
 "By the time Felix drove in with the 
 vet Buttercup was settin' up an' takin' 
 notice. 
 
 "The vet went over 'im careful. 'Two 
 ribs,' 'e says, 'one ear an' four front 
 teeth. Outside of that Vll do. 'E's not 
 worth much, is 'e?' 
 
 " 'Not much, Doc,' I says. 'Just 'is 
 weight in gold, that's all.' 
 
 "The missus looks at me quick an* I 
 see 'er eyes flood up. 
 
 " 'Thank you, Peter, dear old Peter,' 
 she says. 'There's quite a lot of 'im, you 
 know/ 
 
 "With that she drops 'er 'ead in 'er 
 'ands an' cries like 'er 'eart would break. 
 171
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Ain't that funny, now she 'adn't shed a 
 tear till then. 
 
 "Well, that's about all, an* 'ere she 
 comes down the drive. She's after you, 
 I expect." 
 
 I got to my feet and waved to the 
 slender figure approaching. 
 
 "But, Peter," I said, "how can a dog 
 as cross as that be kept at the house?" 
 
 "Cross 1" said Peter. "Huh! 'E's old 
 'ome folks now."
 
 DUMB-BELL'S GUEST
 
 DUMB-BELL'S GUEST 
 
 HOW long can you stay?" asked 
 Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 "Three days, three whole blissful 
 days," I answered. I put my arm about 
 her and I led her to the north end of 
 the terrace, from which point Brook- 
 field rolls away in emerald or flame or 
 dims and browns, depending on the sea- 
 son. 
 
 The rose garden lapping the terrace 
 was bare. Stiff, thorny spikes were all 
 that November had left of a riot of 
 bending, lifting, swaying roses and 
 green-enamel leaves. The white marble 
 shaft of the sundial was bold against a 
 flat background of chocolate brown 
 175
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 earth. The garden wall was edged with 
 hydrangeas. Their creamy petals had 
 become ghosts in Japanese grays and 
 tans which the afterglow was changing 
 to heliotrope. Beyond the garden was 
 the north, some of the east, and nearly 
 all of the west lawn. These flowed away 
 to far vine-clad flint walls guessed at 
 in the half-light where they passed a vista 
 in the trees. 
 
 Drives, maple bordered, swept in 
 curves to stables, garage, greenhouses 
 and gates. Oaks, hickories, elms and the 
 dark mystery of scattered pines broke 
 the red of the western sky. Behind us 
 was the black pile of the house itself, 
 in which friendly lights were spring- 
 ing up. And behind that the meadows 
 of Brookfield ran and ran to distant 
 hills. 
 
 "It is lovely, isn't it?" said Mrs. Greg- 
 176
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 ory after a time. Her hand tightened 
 on my arm. "My dear, we nearly lost 
 it!" 
 
 I turned and met her eyes. "Lost 
 it!" I said. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Money!" she explained. 
 
 "But that's impossible. Jim wrote me 
 the works were running night and day 
 on war orders." 
 
 "That was it war orders. Jim will 
 tell you. You'll find him changed, a 
 little. Things like that change people. 
 We go along for years never knowing. 
 Life seems so simple, so easy, then 
 something happens, some small thing, a 
 little human thing, and you're ground 
 to pieces, nearly. We were saved by 
 a miracle, I think." 
 
 I heard well-known footsteps on the 
 terrace behind us. They had the swing- 
 ing stride which comes from mile on 
 177
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 mile of stubble or briars, or crackling 
 leaves. 
 
 "Spooning, eh?" said the master of 
 Brookfield. 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 "What's all this the Chief's been tell- 
 ing me?" I demanded. 
 
 "Spare me," said Gregory, releasing 
 my hand. "What does a lady tell a gen- 
 tleman when he stands with his arm 
 about her in the gloaming?" Then he 
 grew serious. "After dinner," he said. 
 
 "He's not changed much that I can 
 see," I told Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 But at dinner I did see a change. His 
 grin, his irrepressible boyish grin, had 
 become a smile. And in those comfort- 
 able silences which are the hallmark of 
 abiding friendship I had time to wonder. 
 
 So they had nearly lost it ! I glanced 
 about the big shadow-filled room. It 
 178
 
 Dumb-BelVs Guest 
 
 seemed incredible. It was all so secure, 
 so permanent. Why, the sideboard alone 
 was immovable! It stood there, pon- 
 derous, majestic, defying mortal hands 
 to budge it. And the serving tables 
 stolid, silent. I felt that they would 
 set their broad backs and massive legs 
 and remain stubbornly against those 
 walls while we who dined, and our chil- 
 dren's children, became dust. 
 
 And yet, what kept them there? 
 What made Brookfield, every stick and 
 stone of it, a thing of joy, a place 
 which filled all those who entered its 
 gates with indescribable contentment? I 
 knew, I had seen it. It was six miles 
 down the valley. It was referred to, 
 casually, as "the works." It was a place 
 of din and dirt and sweat. Tall stacks 
 belched sootily into the face of heaven 
 while white-hot mouths of hell opened 
 179
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 and closed below. In infancy it had 
 been a tiny forge at which a great-great- 
 grandfather had labored placidly. It 
 had grown into a huge black demon dis- 
 gorging thousands of tons of greasy 
 gray ingots in a manner which was be- 
 yond my understanding. Gregory, shout- 
 ing above the terrifying noise, had at- 
 tempted to explain; but my head was 
 aching and I very much desired to leave 
 that place to its own infernal devices. 
 
 I had never seen it since. Submerged 
 in the tranquillity of Brookfield, I had 
 forgotten it entirely. Even Gregory 
 gave it scant attention. He motored 
 down the valley once or twice a month, 
 was gone perhaps three hours, and re- 
 turned to his dogs and his guns. 
 
 But something had gone amiss, appar- 
 ently. Perhaps the trouble had been in 
 the demon's entrails. Perhaps it had re- 
 180
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 fused to digest the ore and lime and 
 coke which pygmies poured down its 
 gullet. 
 
 A gray shadow padded through the 
 doorway. It stopped just at the en- 
 trance and surveyed us silently. 
 
 "Good evening," said Gregory. 
 "Won't you join us?" 
 
 The shadow waved a plumed tail. It 
 advanced unhurriedly until the candle 
 light showed a small white setter with a 
 lemon dumb-bell on his side. 
 
 He was quite small, as setters go, but 
 he had the dignity of kings. He was 
 the double champion Brookfield Dumb- 
 Bell who had won the National and All 
 America and twenty lesser stakes be- 
 sides. He outclassed the setters and 
 pointers of the world, and I think he 
 knew it. 
 
 With all this he was not above the 
 181
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 duties of hospitality. Straight to my 
 chair he came, sniffed once to assure 
 himself of my identity, then raised his 
 eyes to mine. 
 
 "How do you do?" I said and slid my 
 hand along his head until one of his ears 
 slipped through my fingers. 
 
 He waved his tail and stretched his 
 lips in the suggestion of a grin, an un- 
 canny habit he had and I remembered 
 how many birds I had missed the year 
 before after some of his matchless finds. 
 
 "It's not polite to laugh at a duffer," 
 I told him. 
 
 He poked a cold nose into the hollow 
 of my hand, then sauntered around the 
 table. He waved his tail as he passed 
 both his master and mistress, stood a mo- 
 ment in thought, and withdrew as un- 
 hurriedly as he had come. We heard 
 his nails click as he passed from rug to 
 182
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 rug on the hardwood floor of the main 
 hall and we listened until the sound grew 
 fainter and was gone. 
 
 "Back to the throne," I said, and this 
 proved to be true. When we went to the 
 living-room a few moments later he was 
 curled up in his chair with his eyes 
 closed. "Asleep, eh?" I said; but he de- 
 nied it feebly with a slight thump of his 
 tail against the leather chair seat. Pres- 
 ently he was snoring. 
 
 "How much could you get for him?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Gregory. 
 "His size is against him for a stud dog." 
 
 "How much would you take?" 
 
 Gregory joined me by the chair. He 
 looked down at the sleeping Dumb-Bell. 
 "Well, I hadn't thought of selling him. 
 Had you, Chief?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, often. He tracks the house 
 183
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 up so, with his blessed muddy paws. 
 Come here, you silly things, and drink 
 your coffee." 
 
 Gregory took a gold and white egg- 
 shell of a cup to the fireplace. He stood 
 with his back to the fire stirring his cof- 
 fee thoughtfully. 
 
 "I can tell you how much he is worth," 
 he said suddenly: "one million, two hun- 
 dred and fifteen thousand dollars." 
 
 "He should find a pleasant home for 
 that," I said. "Would you throw off 
 the fifteen thousand for cash?" Then I 
 saw that he was serious. "What do you 
 mean?" I asked. "Why the exact sum?" 
 
 "Do you happen to know an old Mr. 
 Parmalee, of Chicago, R. H. Panna- 
 lee?" 
 
 I considered a moment. "Yes, I think 
 I do. That is, I knew of him when I 
 was scratching for the Tribune. He's 
 184
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 the bete noir of the higher-ups in Wall 
 Street. He lives in Chicago, won't leave 
 it, ana" is chairman of the board or a big 
 stockholder in heaven knows how many 
 Eastern concerns. He won't go East 
 to board meetings, so board meetings go 
 to him, and the elect groan and moan at 
 the trip. He hates ostentation like 1 the 
 devil, and looks like a tramp. Is he the 
 man you mean?" 
 
 "Yes, that's the man. Especially the 
 tramp part." 
 
 "He's a queer old codger," I said. 
 "He supports a flock of no-account rela- 
 tives who are ashamed to meet him on 
 the street." 
 
 A coffee spoon clattered. "He's not a 
 queer old codger!" said Mrs. Gregory. 
 "He's a dear! I adore him. Imagine 
 being ashamed to meet him! What do 
 his clothes matter? Why " 
 13 185
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Hold on there," Gregory put in. 
 "What did you say when Griggs took 
 him upstairs? Griggs was carrying his 
 bag as though it might explode at any 
 moment What was it you said?" 
 
 Mrs. Gregory recovered her spoon. 
 "I'm sure I've forgotten." 
 
 "You asked me where I'd picked him 
 up, didn't you?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps I did, but I simply 
 meant " 
 
 Gregory turned to me. "If you 
 should hear your hostess ask where you 
 had been picked up, how would it strike 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Why, has he been here?" I asked. 
 "Where did you meet him? What's all 
 this about, anyway?" 
 
 "It's about what the Chief was tell- 
 ing you on the terrace. Are you ready 
 to smoke? Cigarettes in that silver doo- 
 186
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 dab. Cigars just behind you. Want a 
 liqueur? Well, take that other chair; it's 
 more comfortable. Don't interrupt at 
 mere exaggeration, Chief. Man, it would 
 make a play! Perhaps you can do 
 something with it. And I thought I 
 was doing a kind act." He grinned at 
 his wife. "Succoring the poor and 
 needy, eh, Chief? She was Lady Boun- 
 tifulOh, golly! And then Dumb-Bell 
 saved the day. And the Chief I think 
 he was fond of the Chief, too, she'd 
 been so sweet to the poor old man. 
 He" 
 
 "Are you going to tell what happened, 
 or are you going to stand there and " 
 
 "Well, you tell him!" 
 
 "Indeed I'll not. Sit down here and 
 be serious. You were serious enough 
 then." 
 
 Gregory's smile was gone the instant 
 187
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 she had spoken. "Yes, Chief," he said 
 gravely. "We were both a bit serious, 
 I thought." He left the fireplace and 
 let himself slowly down into a chair 
 close to where his wife was sitting. "I 
 hope we'll never be quite so serious 
 again." He crossed his long legs, lit 
 a cigar, and stared into the bluish flames 
 of the applewood fire. "The war did 
 it," he said at last. "And playing a 
 new game. Do you know anything 
 about high explosive shells?" 
 
 "Not a thing," I said. "Except that 
 they go off with a bang, and everybody's 
 getting rich making them." 
 
 "Just so. That's what I knew, last 
 year. Of course I thought, still think, 
 the Allies are doing our work. We 
 didn't have the sweepers to get into 
 the housecleaning properly and they 
 needed brooms. Well, things'll be more 
 188
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 tidy when they get through, but it's been 
 a dirty job. A year ago it looked bad. 
 I rather wanted to help in a small 
 way. 
 
 "Of course you know I'm not very 
 active at the works. Braithwaite runs 
 things to suit himself, and that lets me 
 knock about pretty much as I please. 
 He loves work and I love play, and there 
 you are everybody satisfied. 
 
 "Well, along comes a chap from the 
 Midland Iron Company with his pockets 
 full of subcontracts and his head full of 
 everything from barbed wire to aero- 
 planes. He spent two days with Braith- 
 waite and Gaston, and they came up 
 here, all mad as hatters, and routed me 
 out. The idea was to build a plant in 
 nine or ten minutes and take on the ma- 
 chining of three million three-inch high 
 explosives for Russia on a subcontract 
 189
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 from Midland Iron, who'd furnish the 
 rough casings. 
 
 "All play and no work makes Jack a 
 bright boy, and I inquired gently about 
 Midland Iron. 
 
 "They smiled at me pityingly. 'You 
 tell him/ said Braithwaite. So the sub- 
 contract chap mentioned the names of 
 the directors in a hushed voice, and I 
 blinked. 'But,' I said, 'I've never heard 
 of it before, and outside of hunting sea- 
 son I do read the papers now and then.' 
 They explained that it was a lot of junk 
 consolidated solely for war business with 
 'all the money in the world' behind it. 
 This was so, all right. Both Dun and 
 Bradstreet sent a report a few days later 
 that made me blink again. 
 
 "Well, there seemed to be a quarter 
 of a million in it sure, but I went in 
 more for the reason I've told you than 
 190
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 for the profit on the job. Business had 
 been bad for two years and I was down 
 pretty fine; but all you had to do was 
 to mention Midland Iron at any bank 
 and you could walk in and help your- 
 self. We built a plant equipment, 
 three hundred lathes, three hundred elec- 
 tric motors, and a lot of odds and ends. I 
 went on the paper, of course. 
 
 "There was some delay at first. We 
 wanted master gauges, and Midland 
 couldn't let us have 'em. When we 
 hollered they passed the buck to Russia. 
 The Grand Dukes were too busy or too 
 tired or something to send on the draw- 
 ings, so we paid three hundred machin- 
 ists for an eight-hour day and they sat 
 among the lathes and played pinochle. 
 We didn't dare let 'em go. Skilled labor 
 is skilled labor these days. That was 
 all right, because we put it up to Mid- 
 191
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 land and they never whimpered. Just 
 O.K.'d our pay roll and charged it to 
 the Czar, I guess. 
 
 "This went on for two months. Then 
 we got our gauges and a Russian in- 
 spector who talked French, all in one 
 day; and the rough cases began to roll 
 in from Midland in trainload lots, and 
 pinochle ceased to be a vocation around 
 there. 
 
 "All during this the field trial season 
 was on, and it was breaking my heart. 
 We had a nice birdy pup by Dumb-Bell 
 out of Miss Nance in the derbys, and 
 Peter went to a trial or two. He came 
 home quite gloomy, though, because the 
 pointers were winning all down the line. 
 * 'Ell-'ooping all over the country like a 
 lot o' gray'ounds,' is what he told me. 
 'Don't they find birds?' I asked, and I 
 gathered from what he said that when a 
 192
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 pointer stumbled over a bevy he stopped 
 in astonishment. 
 
 "War or no war, I was going to see 
 the National at least, and things got to 
 running so nicely I decided to make it 
 three weeks and take in the United 
 States and another stake. Braithwaite 
 said to go he was glad to get rid of 
 me, I think. I left for the South with 
 everybody happy and the Russian in- 
 spector walking around twisting his lit- 
 tle stick-up mustache and saying 'C'est 
 tres Hen' at everything, including the 
 three-star Hennessey, which he liked and 
 we furnished. He drank a quart a day 
 without a quiver. Think of it! 
 
 "Peter was right about the pointers. It 
 was a pointer year. They were a poor 
 lot, too; but the setters were worse, and 
 our crowd was in the dumps. There was 
 a lot of grumbling about the judging. 
 193
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Some of us think that first of all a bird 
 dog must find birds. We believe he can 
 go just as fast as his nose will let him and 
 no faster. And that brings me to old Mr. 
 Parmalee. 
 
 "He got in the second night of the Uni- 
 ted States. He had the same old frowsy 
 leather bag he has brought to every field 
 trial as long as anybody can remember. 
 He was looking seedy, even for him, and 
 that's saying a good deal. He came in 
 the door of the hotel, and the boys yelled 
 at him and grabbed him and hammered 
 him on the back, and he blushed he's a 
 diffident little old cuss. 
 
 "Nobody knew anything about him,' ex- 
 cept that he came down to the trials year 
 after year, that he loved a setter as well 
 as any man in the world, and that he was 
 a stickler for nose rather than speed. 
 He'd forget all embarrassment and speak 
 194.
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 up when it came to arguing about 
 thai 
 
 "He had a bully round with Fosdick of 
 the Argot strain that first night. Fosdick 
 was a little overbearing, I thought he 
 has a twenty-thousand-acre preserve on 
 the James River and twenty feet of water 
 at his own dock when he runs down in his 
 yacht and finally he said : 'Well, if you 
 don't like the kind of dogs we're sending 
 to the trials, why don't you breed some to 
 suit you?' 
 
 "Everybody felt uncomfortable. You 
 don't hear things like that often at the 
 trials. 
 
 "But the old gentleman looked Fos- 
 dick in the eye and came back as pat 
 as you please. 'I don't have to breed one,' 
 he said; 'it's already been done. If you 
 want to find out just what you've got, 
 pick out the best one you ever bred and 
 195
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 put him down for three hours with Brook- 
 field Dumb-Bell.' 
 
 "Well, the setter men yelled at that 
 everybody did, in fact and Fosdick shut 
 up like a clam. The old gentleman came 
 over to where I was sitting, and we talked 
 for the rest of the evening. 
 
 "He said that he was from Chicago, 
 and that he took his vacation each year 
 when the National was run. He said he 
 hoped to 'slip out of the harness some day* 
 and spend the rest of his life with a 
 twenty gauge and a pair of Llewellyns. 
 I thought perhaps he was keeping books ; 
 I don't know why, except that he was 
 stoop-shouldered and spoke of having to 
 work too hard at his age. I had a vision 
 of him perched on a high stool doing 
 double entry. 
 
 "I didn't see much of him after that un- 
 til the finals of the Championship. He 
 196
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 rode with me that afternoon, and we fol- 
 lowed the dogs as best we could, hoping 
 for bird work, which we didn't get. He 
 was fairly chipper when we started, but 
 as the dogs ran he got more and more 
 quiet. I don't think he spoke once during 
 the last hour. 
 
 "Well, they gave it to a rangy, wild- 
 eyed, bitch-headed pointer who had cov- 
 ered most of a county and found two 
 bevies and one single in three hours' run- 
 ning; and I rode home with old Mr. Par- 
 malee. He got off his horse and sighed, 
 and went into the hotel without a word. 
 
 "I went upstairs and packed. When I 
 came down he was standing looking out 
 the window, and I walked over to him. 
 
 "The new champion was on leash in 
 
 front of the hotel with a crowd around 
 
 him. His handler was telling everybody 
 
 what a great dog they were looking at. 
 
 197
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Once he said: 'He's a bird dog, men!' 
 and old Mr. Parmalee snorted. He 
 turned to me and, by George, he looked 
 all broken up. 'This is my last trip/ he 
 said; 'I'm getting too old to come down 
 here and see what we saw today.' 
 
 "I said something about it being an off 
 year, but he didn't answer. He looked 
 out the window and clicked with his 
 tongue. 'So that's a National Champion!' 
 he said. Then he turned to me again. 
 'Five years ago today,' he said, 'I saw a 
 real champion win this stake. I can re- 
 member every move he made. He found 
 sixteen bevies and twenty-three singles, 
 and he went a mile at every cast. I have 
 wanted to see something like that again, 
 . . . but I don't think I shall ... I don't 
 think I shall.' 
 
 "I'm something of a soft ass at times, 
 and he looked rather old and forlorn; so 
 198
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 I took hold of his arm and said, 'You 
 come back to Brookfield with me, and 
 we'll shoot some quail over him and watch 
 him work for a week or so. What do you 
 say?' 
 
 "He said a lot about being an old nui- 
 sance and that sort of thing, but his eyes 
 were shining like a child's, and I hustled 
 him upstairs and helped him pack his duds 
 you should have seen 'em and we 
 caught the five o'clock train. The Chief 
 met us at the front door next day and 
 Dumb-Bell was standing beside her. 
 
 "I didn't see much of him after that 
 I had other things on my mind but the 
 Chief took him under her wing, and he 
 took to it all like a wet setter to a wood 
 fire. Didn't he, Chief?" 
 
 "He was just sweet; one of the very 
 nicest guests we ever had. He under- 
 stood everything so. Of course at first I 
 199
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 was well, not startled exactly, but Jim 
 chums with terrible creatures if they shoot 
 well or can walk as far as he can. You 
 know he adores that Slade man who's been 
 in jail I don't know how many times, and 
 sells whisky on the sly, and fights bull- 
 dogs and game chickens. Jim takes him 
 to the gun room and they sit and roar 
 at each other. Sometimes I wonder who 
 tells the worst stories, the Slade man or 
 Jim. 
 
 "Jim hadn't told me he was bringing 
 anyone home with him, and when they got 
 out of the motor and I saw Mr. Parmalee 
 for the first time, well! really his clothes 
 are shocking. And his collars and cuffs 
 and ties! And his hat! Where do you 
 suppose he got that hat, Jim? Then he 
 was not at all at his ease when Jim pre- 
 sented him; I didn't know how diffident 
 he was, then, so when he went upstairs I 
 200
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 asked Jim what he told you just now." 
 
 Gregory chuckled. "About picking 
 him up, she means. He's worth a hun- 
 dred millions." 
 
 "What of it? If he hadn't been the 
 charming old thing he is what difference 
 would that make?" 
 
 "Of course, of course; but, even so, 
 'picking up* a multimillionaire isn't the 
 way I'd put it exactly." 
 
 "It wasn't any time until I knew. He 
 had beautiful old-school manners when his 
 shyness wore off. Mr. Braithwaite had 
 been telephoning for Jim, so he went off 
 to the works, and I showed Mr. Parmalee 
 the place, and he loved it all. We spent 
 most of the afternoon at the kennels. He 
 knew Peter, he'd seen him somewhere at 
 the trials, and they looked at all the dogs 
 and talked and talked. Then I showed 
 him Roderigo's grave in the orchard, and 
 14 201
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 he stood looking down at it, and I knew I 
 was going to like him. 
 
 "We came to the house because he 
 wanted to see Dumb-Bell again, but the 
 mannie was out in the garden digging for 
 moles with his face all dirty. He was 
 having a splendid time and I didn't want 
 to call him in, and Mr. Parmalee said, 'Of 
 course not.' 
 
 "We had tea in here and Mr. Par- 
 malee sat down in Dumb-Bell's chair 
 not knowing and I asked him if he 
 would mind changing his seat. He looked 
 surprised and embarrassed, and said, 
 'Why, certainly.' So when he had taken 
 another chair I told him. 
 
 "I said that Roderigo had had it first 
 and it was his very own chair. And then 
 it was empty for a long time, and then 
 Dumb-Bell did what he did, and now it 
 was his, and nobody else sat in it. 
 202
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 "Mr. Parmalee said, 'I see, I see,' and 
 went over and looked at the chair, and 
 then he said, rather to himself, 'It's not 
 for mere humans, is it?' and then he blew 
 his nose. 
 
 ' 'Sometimes,' I said, 'people sit in it 
 and hold him in their laps. That's all 
 right, of course.' And he said, 'I should 
 like to do that very much'; and then we 
 had our tea. We got along splendidly 
 after that." 
 
 "I should say they did," said Gregory. 
 "She took to the Lady Bountiful business 
 like a duck. She fancied she was showing 
 the poor old man the time of his life." 
 
 "I was," said Mrs. Gregory calmly. 
 
 "He's coming back, at any rate. And 
 the Lord knows I didn't do so much to 
 make his visit pleasant. After I saw 
 Braithwaite I didn't have time to work 
 dogs for old Mr. Parmalee or anybody 
 203
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 else. I told him I was busy, and Peter 
 took him out every morning, and he 
 knocked about with the Chief in the after- 
 noon. It was out of season, but I told 
 Peter to let the old man kill a few quail 
 over Dumb-Bell just to say he'd done 
 it. I thought Peter would shoot me. 
 
 "He came up to the house that night, 
 though, and looked at me as though I 
 were a convict. It seems the old man had 
 refused point blank to take a gun along 
 out of season. "E's a sportsman,' said 
 Peter, 'and, 'eaven knows, they're rare 
 enough!' I admitted it, and Peter left 
 with his head in the air. 
 
 "This was at first. I saw the old chap 
 each night of course and he'd describe 
 every point Dumb-Bell had made that 
 day. Later he could have had a fit in the 
 front hall without my noticing it." 
 
 "That isn't so. Through it all he re- 
 204
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 membered his guest. At dinner he'd sit 
 with a look on his face that made me want 
 to scream, and talk hunting dogs and field 
 trials and trout fishing with that old man, 
 and laugh at his stories, too." 
 
 "Stuff. I simply wanted to forget dur- 
 ing dinner that I owed a million." 
 
 "What!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Gregory cheerfully. 
 "Well over a million. I gave you the 
 figures a while ago." 
 
 "It isn't possible!" 
 
 "That's what I said until Braithwaite 
 got through. It's quite simple. Our con- 
 tract was for three dollars and forty-five 
 cents per shell for three million shells and 
 it was costing us three eighty-five and a 
 half to turn 'em out." 
 
 "But how could that be? Why were 
 your estimates so far off?" 
 
 "New game. We didn't know the an- 
 205
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 gles. And then things broke badly for 
 us. For instance, we figured on three 
 hundred lathes at eight hundred dollars. 
 Well, everything went sky high and our 
 lathes cost fifteen hundred each, and we 
 had to get down on our knees and pray 
 for 'em at that price. Same thing with 
 our motors. They should have been a 
 hundred and thirty-five; they were two 
 hundred and fifty. We figured on seven- 
 teen-cent copper, which is high enough. 
 We paid twenty-six cents a pound for 
 every pound, and you could take it or 
 leave it, they didn't care which; so every 
 band on every shell cost forty-five cents 
 instead of thirty-two. Then we got into 
 a mess through improper heat treatment. 
 The cases were annealed at too low a tem- 
 perature, and they broke our machines 
 and chewed up our tools and played the 
 dickens generally. Same with the fuse 
 206
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 sockets. We'd figured on free-cutting 
 cold-rolled bar stock, point forty-five. 
 Instead it was fifty-eight to sixty, and ma- 
 chine tools holler for help in that kind of 
 going. Oh, it was a fine party, but ex- 
 pensive. 
 
 "To make everything perfect, the Rus- 
 sian inspector left the Hennessey long 
 enough to wander from the office over to 
 the plant and throw out the first batch 
 of finished shells because the interiors 
 weren't smooth. 
 
 "Of course anyone knows the exterior 
 of a shell must be polished on account of 
 air friction, but the inside 
 
 "Braithwaite kept his temper somehow, 
 so he told me, and asked in bad French if 
 they wanted 'em polished just to be tidy, 
 or what? And the inspector explained 
 that the trinitro toluol went into 'em un- 
 der pressure and was extremely sensitive. 
 207
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 Therefore a little roughness of the 
 chamber wall might cause a spark if the 
 shell were dropped, in which case 
 'Pouf!' 
 
 "'Oh, pouf! eh?' said Braithwaite. 
 'Well, we're a liberal crowd; at three 
 forty-five we throw in a "pouf" with every 
 shell/ But our Russian friend drew him 
 gently to the office and got out the con- 
 tract and it read: 'Surfaces must be pol- 
 ished.' One little s did the trick and 
 Braithwaite beat the inspector to the Hen- 
 nessey bottle. 
 
 "Of course we put it up to Midland at 
 once, by letter, by wire, by long distance ; 
 then Braithwaite and I went on. After 
 wrestling with 'em for two days and a 
 night they agreed to allow us ten cents a 
 shell, and that was final. 
 
 "I came home with two hands and the 
 clothes on my back. I'm a good wing 
 208
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 shot, throw a fairly accurate fly, and 
 I'll be forty next month. 
 
 "I sat in the smoker all night. I kept 
 seeing the Chief in the rose garden. She 
 had on a floppy pink sun hat and she cut 
 roses, armloads of 'em and sang." 
 
 Gregory stopped abruptly. 
 
 "Good Lord!" I said. I saw white fin- 
 gers steal over and twine themselves about 
 a lean brown hand clenched on the chair 
 arm. I becanie absorbed in the fireplace 
 with its bed of glowing ashes. 
 
 "Isn't it the deuce," said Gregory at 
 last, "what just money will do! Just 
 money. Think of it!" 
 
 I thought of it while the big clock tick- 
 tocked in the hall, and something was 
 done with an absurdly small handkerchief, 
 and the pinched look left Gregory's face. 
 
 "I hadn't told the Chief anything," he 
 began again. "I'd been hoping that Mid- 
 209
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 land might see us through. Of course 
 she knew something was in the wind, but 
 she hadn't an idea how bad it was. On 
 the train coming back I made up my mind 
 to tell her as soon as I got in the house; 
 so we walked in here as soon as we'd said 
 hello. 
 
 "She asked me if I was tired, and I 
 said 'A little,' and looked about the room. 
 I'd forgotten old Mr. Parmalee was on 
 earth, but I thought a servant might be 
 about. I never looked in the bay window. 
 There's nothing there but the chair and 
 no one would be sitting in that. 
 
 "I sat down where you're sitting now, 
 and I said, 'Come here, Chief,' and she 
 came and sat in my lap, and then I told 
 her. 
 
 "I got far enough along to mention 
 Midland Iron, and then I heard a noise 
 in the bay window as though someone had 
 210
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 moved a foot on the floor. I said, 'Wait 
 a moment/ to the Chief, and got up and 
 went over to the chair. 
 
 "Old Mr. Parmalee was sitting there 
 with Dumb-Bell asleep in his lap. The 
 dog was wet and muddy and snoring 
 you know how he snores when he's tired. 
 
 " 'Oh, hello!' I said, and the old chap 
 looked as though I'd caught him stealing 
 the silver. 
 
 ' 'I didn't want to wake him,' he said 
 in a whisper; and I said, 'Won't he ruin 
 your clothes?' 
 
 "He didn't answer just looked down 
 at the dog. 'We've had a wonderful day,' 
 he said, 'wonderful!' And I said, 'That's 
 good,' and took the Chief in the library, 
 and finished telling her there. 
 
 "I had dinner alone with the old man 
 that night. The Chief couldn't come 
 down. You see she'd got both barrels at 
 211
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 once, and it flattened her out for a few 
 hours. 
 
 "I didn't say much, and neither did he. 
 As soon as we'd had coffee I asked him to 
 excuse me, and he said, 'Certainly,' but he 
 fidgeted a bit and finally got out that he 
 wanted to ask a favor, and I told him to 
 go ahead. 
 
 "He said, 'You know I expected to 
 leave tomorrow morning.' I said, 'Yes.' 
 I hadn't known it, but I wanted to get 
 rid of him, under the circumstances. 
 
 'Would it be asking too much,' he 
 said, 'if I stayed a day or so longer?' I 
 told him to go ahead and stay. I wasn't 
 very cordial, I'm afraid. I wanted to 
 get up to the Chief, and I wanted him 
 to go. 
 
 "I didn't see him at all next morning. 
 The Chief wanted to look at the place and 
 wanted me with her, so we wandered 
 212
 
 Dumb -Bell's* Guest 
 
 about and looked at everything as though 
 we were seeing it for the first time." 
 
 "We were," Mrs. Gregory put in; "I 
 saw things I'd never seen before." 
 
 "What with?" asked Gregory. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't cry all the time just 
 when things happened that would nearly 
 kill you. . . . The cows, with their big 
 kind eyes, all giving as much milk as they 
 possibly could. And the work horses, the 
 dear old work horses that would go away 
 from the safe, warm stables. And the 
 dogs, our own little doggies that were so 
 glad to see us. And the grass and the 
 trees and the fields, and Peter and Jerry 
 and Felix and all the men, so good and 
 faithful, who had to be taken care of when 
 they grew old. They were all so proud of 
 what they were doing, even the man who 
 was putting in tile, Jim, do you remem- 
 ber?" 
 
 213
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Yes," said Gregory. 
 
 "And then we came back to the house 
 and in here and there was the chair, all 
 worn, and " the ridiculous handkerchief 
 was out again, " and then I wanted to 
 die before it all happened. . . . And just 
 then just then You tell him, Jim!" 
 
 "Well," said Gregory, "just then old 
 Mr. Farm alee came in, very much embar- 
 rassed, and asked if we were in trouble. 
 And the Chief said yes, we were. And 
 old Mr. Parmalee asked if he couldn't 
 help. And I said no, and thanked him. 
 Then he said" 
 
 "And the way he said it, Jim! 'Some- 
 times people can help other people.* 
 That's what he said. Wasn't it, Jim?" 
 
 Gregory nodded. "Well, of course I 
 
 said he couldn't help in this case, and he 
 
 said, 'I heard you mention Midland Iron 
 
 yesterday. Has that corporation any- 
 
 214
 
 Dumb -Bell's Guest 
 
 thing to do with it?' I was surprised he 
 even knew the name, but I said yes, and 
 he said, 'If that's the case I think you'd 
 better tell me about it.' He sat down 
 then and folded his arms as though ready 
 to listen, and for some reason, I don't 
 know why, I sat down, too, and told him 
 the whole business. 
 
 ""When I got through he said, 'Yes, I 
 see.' Then he got up and walked over 
 and looked down at Dumb-Bell and said, 
 'He'd have to leave his chair as things are, 
 wouldn't he?' Then he looked at the 
 Chief, 'We can't have that, can we?' 
 he said, and the Chief began to weep 
 again. 
 
 "The old man said, 'There, there,' and 
 picked up the phone and asked for long 
 distance, and then for A. L. Warrington 
 at Pittsburgh he's president of Mid- 
 land. I thought the old man had lost his 
 215
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 mind. I sat there looking at him, wonder- 
 ing what the deuce Warrington would 
 say when he found what he had on the 
 wire. 
 
 "Nobody said anything while we waited 
 for the connection. I patted the Chief 
 while she sniffled, and the old man patted 
 Dumb-Bell while he snored. It was quite 
 a tableau. At last the bell rang. 
 
 "'Hello!' said the old man. 'Is that 
 you, Alfred? This is Mr. Parmalee.' 
 Think that over for a moment ! The presi- 
 dent of Midland Iron was Alfred and 
 that old scarecrow was Mr. Parmalee! 
 'Alfred,' he said, 'do you know anything 
 about a contract with the Gregory Fur- 
 nace Company for machining three-inch 
 shells?' 
 
 "Evidently Warrington said he did. If 
 he didn't he had a poor memory; I'd spent 
 sixteen hours with him over it. 'Well,' 
 216
 
 Dumb -Bell's Gu,est 
 
 said the old man, 'have a new contract 
 made out at three-ninety per shell, and 
 mail it to Gregory tomorrow. Do you 
 understand, Alfred? ... All right.' Then 
 he rang off. 
 
 "The Chief and I were sitting there 
 gaping. I was wondering if I were crazy, 
 too. 
 
 "The old man coughed nervously we 
 were both staring at him then he said, 
 'You see, it just happens that I have an 
 interest in er that is, I own a majority 
 of stock in er the Midland Iron Com- 
 pany.' Then he sneaked out of the room. 
 He was frightfully embarrassed." 
 
 Gregory tossed what was left of his 
 cigar into the fire. We watched the small 
 flame it made until it flickered into a wisp 
 of smoke. 
 
 The sound of snoring in the bay win- 
 dow ceased. Dumb-Bell sat up in his 
 15 217
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 chair, yawned tremendously, regarded us 
 all for a moment and grinned. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Gregory, "it's very 
 funny now"
 
 ORDERED ON
 
 VI 
 
 ORDERED ON 
 
 THE wood fire leaped and crackled, 
 and shot small embers out upon the 
 bricks. The embers changed from white 
 to red, from red to gray, from gray to 
 sullen black. Their lives were short. One 
 moment glowing, brilliant dead smudges 
 on the hearth the next. Dumb-Bell 
 watched them. 
 
 It was the first time Dumb-Bell had 
 noticed the embers. His chair had always 
 stood in the bay window across the big 
 room. That day they had moved it nearer 
 the fire. He wondered why. 
 
 They had moved the leather-covered 
 stool, too. He blinked down at it. The 
 leather-covered stool had stood, for the 
 221
 
 . 
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 past six months, just in front of his chair. 
 He had disliked it at first because it was 
 strange. He disliked strange things that 
 interfered with his habits. It had been 
 his habit, until the last year, to get into his 
 chair by a single easy bound. Then he 
 had found it better to put his forepaws in 
 the chair seat, pull one hind leg up, and 
 then the other. 
 
 One day he had hunted quail from a 
 pink dawn to a red eve. They had taken 
 out as his brace mate young Susan White- 
 stone, who was something of a flibber- 
 tigibbet. The perverse creature had in- 
 sisted on flying to far dim thickets in her 
 searchings, leaving nearer cover unex- 
 plored. It was that way with the young 
 success was always just over the hill. 
 Dumb-Bell had humored the silly thing, 
 had even been caught up by her infec- 
 tious, sweeping flights. He had run with- 
 222
 
 Ordered On 
 
 out restraint, without dignity, with aban- 
 don. 
 
 Not as he had run in those all-conquer- 
 ing days when his sobriquet was the White 
 Ghost ; but he had held the flitting Susan, 
 even, for a time, and there was this differ- 
 ence between them: now and then she 
 would flash blithely past a bit of cover, 
 without a thought, without a sign; and 
 then he would come plunging by, weary 
 in heels and heart, but with a champion's 
 nose. One instant he was in his stride, 
 the next moveless, high-headed, tense. 
 Within the thicket, perhaps a hundred 
 feet away, was a breathless huddle of 
 brown feathers and close-held wings! 
 
 And then the airy Susan would come 
 creeping back, awed by the splendor of 
 his pose, vaguely troubled by the thought 
 that* flit as she might for all her days, 
 such miracles were not for her. 
 223
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 That night, when Dumb-Bell put his 
 forepaws in the chair his hind legs, for 
 some reason, refused to follow. He had 
 tried to lift them up, his toes scratching 
 on the slippery leather, until his mistress 
 came and helped him into the chair. 
 
 Limping in from the garden next day 
 Dumb-Bell had found the stool before his 
 chair. He waited for someone to move it. 
 No one did, and he decided to climb into 
 the chair despite it. He found the stool 
 was like a step. By using it he could 
 walk right into his chair. He tried it sev- 
 eral times to make sure. It worked per- 
 fectly every time. From then on he liked 
 the stool. 
 
 And now they had moved his chair and 
 his stool nearer tKe fire. It had seemed a 
 little chilly in the bay window the last few 
 nights. It must be a very cold fall. It 
 was certainly nice and warm here by the 
 224
 
 Ordered On 
 
 fire. And then he could watch the em- 
 bers. 
 
 He was alone with the fire and his 
 thoughts. He could hear a faint murmur 
 of voices coming from the dining-room. 
 The people were about the pleasant, glis- 
 tening table. It might be well to go in 
 there and stand by his mistress. Then, 
 just before Griggs took her plate away, 
 her fork would come stealing down quite 
 quietly with something delicious on the 
 end. He would be careful not to let his 
 teeth click on the silver tines. Not that 
 it made any difference who heard, but they 
 had done it that way for years. 
 
 It had begun when he was always hun- 
 gry and inclined to beg, and perhaps 
 annoy the guests, and rules had been 
 made. Nowadays he was never very hun- 
 gry and guests were never annoyed at 
 anything he did. They were, as a matter 
 225
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 of fact, quite flattered if he noticed them 
 at all. 
 
 Dumb-Bell raised his head from his 
 paws, stirred, and glanced at the door. It 
 was a long way to the dining-room, and 
 he was not in the least hungry. He had 
 left three pieces of liver untouched on his 
 plate in the butler's pantry. . . . 
 
 He was still watching the embers when 
 the people came in from dinner his mas- 
 ter and mistress and that old man named 
 Parmalee. Dumb-Bell gave the two 
 thumps on the chair seat which hospitality 
 required, and Mr. Parmalee came and 
 scratched him back of the ears. 
 
 It was pleasant, this scratching. He 
 closed his eyes. The voices and the snap- 
 ping of the fire grew fainter and fainter. 
 At last they drifted away altogether, and 
 he was in a queer thicket in which quail 
 rose with a whir at every step he took but 
 226
 
 Ordered On 
 
 gave no scent, although he tried and tried 
 to smell them. Why he, Champion Brook- 
 field Dumb-Bell, was flushing birds! It 
 was horrible. He twitched and whined 
 in his sleep. 
 
 While he slept the people talked. 
 
 "Jim," said Mr. Parmalee, "I've come 
 here this time to tell you something. I've 
 discovered the Happy Hunting Ground. 
 I want to take you there." 
 
 The master of Brookfield looked at him 
 inquiringly. 
 
 "I not only discovered it, I made it," 
 Mr. Parmalee went on. "No, I can't say 
 that. Come to think of it, the Good Lord 
 did most of the work. I just put on the 
 finishing touches. It's in Minnesota." 
 
 "Are there quail up there?" asked 
 Gregory doubtfully. "I've understood 
 not. Nothing to speak of, at any rate." 
 
 "No, no," said Mr. Parmalee. "Bob- 
 227
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 white must have his comforts his corn 
 and his ragweed and his wheat. Some 
 day, perhaps, he'll get there, but not now. 
 The wilderness frightens him. We'll hunt 
 a braver bird, king of them all." 
 
 "Ruffed grouse!" said the master of 
 Brookfield quickly. 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Parmalee, and then 
 he explained. He owned, it seemed, a 
 big tract of timber land in northern Min- 
 nesota. He coughed slightly as he ad- 
 mitted it the things he owned embar- 
 rassed Mr. Parmalee. He had gone up 
 there last year. He wanted to see the 
 great pines tremble, sway, and crash down 
 before the deep biting axes and snoring 
 saws of the lumberjacks. He had seen 
 this, and other things. In particular he 
 had seen, or rather heard, the flight of in- 
 numerable ruffed grouse getting up be- 
 fore him in the thickets. 
 228
 
 Ordered On 
 
 It was all but impenetrable cover, much 
 too thick for wing shooting; and yet here 
 was a country filled with the greatest of 
 all game birds. He thought about it for 
 several days. 
 
 In any direction he pushed his way 
 through second-growth pine, silver birch, 
 alders, and a riot of bushes and vines, 
 a thrilling roar of wings was all about 
 him. 
 
 One night he talked with the logging 
 superintendent who recommended and 
 sent for one Red Harry, log boss extraor- 
 dinary. He came, a big red man, as thick 
 through the chest as one of the pines he 
 smote, and stood in the doorway. Mr. 
 Parmalee told him what he wanted. 
 Could it be done? 
 
 "Sure, anything kin be done; but it'll 
 cost" 
 
 "That's my part of it," said Mr. Par- 
 229
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 malee, who had taken stock of his man 
 and was never embarrassed when it came 
 to large affairs. 
 
 Red Harry turned and spat unhur- 
 riedly through the doorway. "I'll get a 
 hundred rough-necks from Brainerd. 
 You want some of the stuff left standin', 
 an' brush heaps made every little bit. 
 Have I got you right?" 
 
 "Exactly. If you thin it too much the 
 birds will leave, and they like brush 
 heaps." 
 
 "Twenty square miles?" 
 
 "About that," said Mr. Parmalee; "and 
 a good, tight, four-room cabin." 
 
 "All set," said Red Harry, and 
 slouched into the night. 
 
 The master and mistress of Brookfield 
 listened to further deeds of Red Harry 
 and his rough-necks. The eyes of the mis- 
 tress of Brookfield widened at this whole- 
 230
 
 Ordered On 
 
 sale conversion of the wilderness into a 
 shooting preserve. 
 
 "And so," Mr. Parmalee wound up, 
 "the Happy Hunting Ground is ready." 
 He turned to his hostess. "I hoped you 
 would come, too. It will be a little rough, 
 but" 
 
 "I'd love it," said Mrs. Gregory. "And 
 Jim will go quite mad." 
 
 "The trouble is," said Gregory, "I 
 haven't a dog that will do. My stuff is 
 all too fast for grouse. I'll talk to Peter 
 tomorrow though and see what he's got." 
 
 But Peter tilted his hat over one eye 
 and scratched the back of his head when 
 asked, next morning, to produce a grouse 
 dog. He let his eye rove down the line of 
 runways and back to the master of Brook- 
 field. A grouse dog must be a plodding, 
 creeping, silent worker. A field trial ken- 
 nel was not the place to look for one. 
 231
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 "Old Jane Aus'in, now, might do," said 
 Peter at last. "She always was sly like, 
 an' what with age an' whelpin' an' one 
 thing an' other she might stay around 
 where you could get a look at her now 
 and then." 
 
 "All right," said the master of Brook- 
 field promptly, "we'll take her along." 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Peter. "I ain't 
 told you yet. She's 'eavy in whelp to 
 Beau Brummell." 
 
 "Oh!" said the master of Brookfield. 
 "Well, why didn't you say so at first?" 
 
 "'Ow can I say it all at once?" Peter 
 wanted to know. "You come 'ere askin' 
 me this an' askin' me that, an' I'm just 
 tellin' you." He spent a moment in 
 thought. "Ole Bang 'e's gone," he saiH 
 meditatively. "Now the Beau 'imself 
 might do. 'E's slowed down to nothin' 
 an' 'e's got a grand nose " 
 232
 
 Ordered On 
 
 "Just the thing," said the master of 
 Brookfield. "We'll give him a trial at 
 any rate. What else have you got?" 
 
 "'Old your 'orses a bit," said Peter. 
 "'Is rheumatism 'as been so bad 'ere late- 
 ly 'e can't 'ardly get out of 'is kennel." 
 
 The master of Brookfield got out his 
 cigarette case and seated himself on the 
 kennel house doorstep. There followed 
 a gloomy silence. It was broken by Peter 
 at last. 
 
 "Lord!" he exploded suddenly, "I 
 never thought." He folded his arms and 
 directed a reproachful eye at the master 
 of Brookfield. "You come 'ere askin' me 
 for a grouse dog," he said. "Why didn't 
 you look around afore you come?" He 
 nodded toward the house. "What about 
 'im?" he inquired. "With all the brains 
 an' all the nose in the world, an' 'is speed 
 gone from 'im. Take 'im with you up 
 16 283
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 there, an' if *e flushes a single bird, once 
 'e knows what they're like, you can 'ave 
 my wages for a year." 
 
 "I believe you're right," said the mas- 
 ter of Brookfield, brightening. "It's queer 
 I didn't think of it. And yet, when you 
 consider everything " He broke off, 
 overwhelmed by visions of the past in 
 which a white speck swept distant hori- 
 zons while horsemen cursed him lovingly 
 and galloped after. 
 
 "It is funny now, ain't it?" said Peter. 
 "'Untin' grouse with 'im. Lord save us!" 
 
 The pines had done it. At first Dumb- 
 Bell had suspected the loons which 
 laughed wildly from somewhere out on 
 the black mystery of the lake. But it 
 wasn't the loons ; they, at least, were alive. 
 It was the pines, the brooding pines and 
 the silence. Always before, wherever he 
 234
 
 Ordered On 
 
 had gone, there had been noises, reassur- 
 ing noises. Early in the morning, like 
 this, birds should chirp and roosters crow ; 
 dogs give tongue and cattle rumble a 
 greeting to the dawn. Horses might 
 nicker and stamp. Sheep quaver to one 
 another. And, best of all, there would be 
 human voices, or a laugh, or a song, or a 
 whistle. And the trees, where these things 
 happened, rustled comfortably and seemed 
 to take an interest. 
 
 All this was far away, and Dumb- 
 Bell had the shivers, and the pines had 
 done it. He had heard them all night. 
 When the wind blew, the pines made a 
 noise. He did not like that noise. The 
 silence in which, no matter how hard he 
 listened, nothing could be heard was al- 
 most better. 
 
 Although the kitchen fire was banked 
 and he lay on a shooting coat close to the 
 235
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 stove he had begun to shiver as the noise 
 went on. He had hoped that when it 
 stopped he would stop shivering, but the 
 wind had died out and the noise had 
 stopped, and still he shivered. He could 
 see the pines now through the cabin win- 
 dow, black and still against the sky, 
 plainer every minute as the light grew. 
 So many of them! There were a few 
 pines at Brookfield. There had been a 
 lot of them on one side of the course when 
 he won the Continental. He had not 
 shivered at them then. He had just run, 
 with hundreds of men watching, and 
 smashed into his bevy finds and gone on, 
 while the men yelled. 
 
 But the pines down there were smaller 
 and not so black and proud, and he had 
 been wild with excitement, for of course 
 he was winning, he always won, and he 
 knew the men would crowd about him 
 236
 
 Ordered On 
 
 later and talk about him in hushed voices 
 while he pretended not to hear what they 
 said. 
 
 There had been so many people that 
 day. Here there were so few. His mas- 
 ter and mistress and Mr. Parmalee and 
 the cook man. That was all. And mil- 
 lions of pines. Dumb-Bell shivered and 
 watched them through the window, his 
 head between his paws. 
 
 They called this place the Happy 
 Hunting Ground; but Dumb-Bell was 
 not happy as he lay there, although he 
 had hunted every day since they came. 
 
 Of course it was not in the least like 
 quail hunting nothing was like that! 
 You went as fast as you could when you 
 hunted quail, and saw the country for 
 miles and miles. It was glorious! 
 
 But they wouldn't let him do that any 
 more, and these new birds were interest- 
 237
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 ing. You must go very quietly, and at 
 the first faint scent slow to a walk and 
 then to a creep and then to a crawl, until 
 something told you you could go no 
 farther. 
 
 Dumb-Bell had flushed two grouse that 
 first day before he had understood how 
 they would burst out of the cover and 
 roar off when he was fifty feet away. His 
 master had said "Careful" to him re- 
 proachfully, and Dumb-Bell had grinned 
 in an agony of remorse. After that no 
 more birds were flushed. He just crept 
 about and found them in every direction, 
 while his master and Mr. Parmalee shot, 
 and his mistress called him silly names 
 and even hugged him, now and then, when 
 he came back with the dead bird unruffled 
 in his mouth. 
 
 He had disapproved of this hugging 
 business. He was hunting, and even 
 238
 
 Ordered On 
 
 though he went slowly and was stiff for 
 some reason, when night came he was still 
 Champion Brookfield Dumb-Bell at his 
 work and not a "precious lamb." 
 
 This was the dawn of their last day in 
 the Happy Hunting Ground. Some of 
 the things were packed already. The 
 wagons would come tomorrow; and 
 Dumb-Bell was glad. 
 
 The wagons would take them for miles 
 through the pines. But the train would 
 come along, and after a while the pines 
 would not stand in towering ranks on both 
 sides of the track, and he would stop 
 shivering. 
 
 He lay and watched the pines until the 
 cook man came and gave the stove its 
 breakfast. Dumb-Bell wondered why it 
 always ate wood instead of the good- 
 smelling things that were put on top of it. 
 
 Presently his mistress called good 
 239
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 morning to Mr. Parmalee and came into 
 the kitchen, and the last day in the Happy 
 Hunting Ground had begun. 
 
 His mistress stayed at the cabin that 
 day to finish packing, and he and his mas- 
 ter and Mr. Parmalee started out. As 
 they were leaving, his mistress gave him 
 a hug and felt him shiver, and thought 
 he was cold. 
 
 But his master said, "He'll warm up 
 when he gets to moving. Won't you, old 
 snoozer?" 
 
 Dumb-Bell grinned, and galloped stiffly 
 to a small thicket. He skirted it with 
 care to show that he was ready. ... It 
 was much better to hunt and forget the 
 pines. 
 
 He did forget them all morning long. 
 Early in the day his master made a won- 
 derful double, both of them cross shots, 
 and soon after that Dumb-Bell pointed a 
 240
 
 Ordered On 
 
 live bird a long way off, with a dead bird 
 in his mouth, and Mr. Parmalee well, it 
 wasn't exactly hugging, but it was near it. 
 
 They ate lunch in a small clearing 
 where the low gray sky seemed to rest on 
 the tops of the pine trees. Dumb-Bell 
 ate his two sandwiches slowly, and stared 
 at it. 
 
 There was something about the sky he 
 did not like. As he watched it the shivers 
 came back, and he was glad when lunch 
 was over and he could go to work 
 again. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, although he was 
 working as hard as he could, he began 
 to shiver worse than ever, and suddenly 
 he knew. . . . 
 
 It was not the pines that had made him 
 
 shiver. It was something else. It was 
 
 something that was coming. It would be 
 
 here soon now. It had been coming all 
 
 241
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 night. The pines had been telling him. 
 Why, perhaps they were not so proud, so 
 aloof, as they had seemed ! Perhaps they 
 really cared like the friendly trees at 
 Brookfield. 
 
 This thing that was coming was in the 
 sky. In the gray sky that was growing 
 dark now and the pines were beginning 
 to talk about it again. 
 
 Dumb-Bell stopped hunting, and stared 
 into the north. As he stared his eyes 
 changed, his soft, kindly, setter eyes. 
 They filled with green lights. Those from 
 which he sprang, centuries and centuries 
 before, had fled and died before this thing, 
 coming out of the north, and the sleeping 
 wolf within him was awake and was 
 afraid. 
 
 "Getting pretty dark, isn't it?" said the 
 master of Brookfield. "Let's hunt this 
 piece out and break for camp. We're 
 242
 
 Ordered On 
 
 going to have a storm I think. Dumb- 
 Bell! Go on, old man!" 
 
 At the worJs Dumb-Bell turned. Re- 
 bellion was in his heart. He would not 
 go on. He would put his tail between his 
 legs and run. He would run to where the 
 stove was that ate wood. 
 
 This tall man who said "Go on," who 
 was he? Dumb-Bell looked at him wildly, 
 and their eyes met . . . Dumb-Bell 
 grinned, whined, and started not for the 
 stove and safety; he went carefully to- 
 ward a distant brush heap. There might 
 be a grouse in there, and the tall man, his 
 man, in the old tan shooting coat which 
 he had slept on so many times, had 
 ordered him to find it. 
 
 Yes, there was a grouse in the brush 
 
 heap. Dumb-Bell slowed to a creep and 
 
 then to a crawl, until something told him 
 
 he could go no farther. Then he stopped, 
 
 243
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 his eyes no longer green and shifting. 
 They were warm, faithful, eager the 
 eyes of Champion Brookfield Dumb-Bell 
 on point. 
 
 And then, with one last wailing shriek 
 from the pines, the thing that had been 
 coming, that had made him shiver so, was 
 there. Dumb-Bell did not move. His 
 fear, the fear of slinking ancestors, was 
 gone. What if there was a roar that 
 deafened him ! What if it was as dark as 
 night ! What if he could scarcely breathe 
 for the smothering ice particles that stung 
 his muzzle and filled his eyes and his nos- 
 trils! The years had thinned his blood 
 and stiffened his limbs, but his nose, which 
 was his soul, they could not touch. It 
 was the nose of a champion still, and wind 
 and dark and snow could not prevail 
 against it there was a grouse in the 
 brush heap. 
 
 244
 
 Ordered On 
 
 A blizzard was a terrible thing. The 
 pines had moaned all night about it. It 
 was here now, roaring and biting, all but 
 lifting him off his feet. Still there was 
 a grouse in the brush heap. You couldn't 
 change that. 
 
 The wind was the worst. It was so 
 hard to hold himself erect, and he must do 
 that, whatever happened. He was on 
 point, and champions pointed with a high 
 head and level tail. 
 
 If he moved, the grouse would flush, 
 and he never flushed birds. Why, long 
 ago, when he was a tiny puppy and they 
 called him the runt and were ashamed 
 of him, he never flushed birds. He had 
 pointed sparrows when they kept him 
 alone day after day in the runway. Of 
 course no one knew he was pointing and 
 no one came to flush the sparrows. They 
 would hop about in the runway for a long 
 245
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 time so long that his legs would begin 
 to tremble and his back would ache, and 
 someone should have come but no one 
 ever did. 
 
 It was like that now, only worse. The 
 wind was so cold. The winds were all 
 much colder, lately. This one seemed to 
 cut right into his chest as he held his head 
 high against it. His hind legs were going 
 back on him, too. They were beginning 
 to let him down a little. He must 
 straighten up somehow. 
 
 Why didn't they come? He was so 
 cold, so very cold. If he could change 
 his position it would help his legs. They 
 felt numb and queer. He felt queer all 
 over. But there was a grouse in the brush 
 heap. They would come and flush it soon, 
 now. 
 
 They had better hurry. He could not 
 hold his head up much longer. It was not 
 246
 
 Ordered On 
 
 the wind, the wind was growing warmer, 
 almost like summer, but he was sleepy. 
 That was queer. He had never felt sleepy 
 on point before. But then he had worked 
 hard today and he had not slept well last 
 night because of the shivers. He would 
 sleep better tonight, much better. Why, 
 he could go to sleep this minute. The 
 wind wouldn't hurt him. The wind was 
 his friend. It had blown the snow all 
 over him, and it was nice warm snow. It 
 packed itself under his chest. He could 
 even rest a little weight on it and help 
 his legs. 
 
 But they were gone away, his legs. 
 Back to Brookfield, perhaps. He must 
 go, too, back to Brookfield. It was bright 
 and cheerful there. And always there 
 were sounds that he knew, nice sounds 
 not like the pines and the loons. 
 
 He would come to the big gates first 
 247
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookjield 
 
 and then he would leave the drive and cut 
 across the lawn toward the lights of the 
 house shining through the trees. He 
 would scratch on the front door and some- 
 one would let him in, and Peter would be 
 glad to see him, and so would his chair, 
 his own chair near the fire. And then 
 But there was a grouse in the brush heap! 
 He had almost forgotten . . . No, he 
 couldn't leave just now. He must stay 
 a little longer, alone in the dark in the 
 nice warm snow. 
 
 The snow was getting higher about him 
 all the time. Perhaps it would cover him 
 up after a while. He was not very big. 
 They had called him the runt long ago . . . 
 He had never flushed birds, though, even 
 then. And now, although his master 
 called him old snoozer, he was Champion 
 Brookfield Dumb-Bell, with his picture 
 in the papers, and there was a grouse in 
 248
 
 Ordered On 
 
 the brush heap! A grouse in the 
 brush heap . . . 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield raised her 
 gun. "All ready, Tom," she said. 
 
 The cook put his shoulder to the door 
 and let it swing open a scant foot. There 
 was a whistling shriek, the room was rilled 
 with a vortex of snow, both lamps went 
 out, and the cook threw his weight against 
 the door until the latch clicked in its 
 socket. It was done in five seconds, prac- 
 tice had made him perfect; but a tongue 
 of flame had leaped out of the door as 
 the twelve-gauge spoke in an abrupt yelp 
 that just managed to rise above the voice 
 of the storm. 
 
 The cook lit the lamps again. Mrs. 
 
 Gregory dropped the gun butt to the 
 
 floor and felt the muscles of her right arm. 
 
 She was shooting three and a quarter 
 
 " 249
 
 Dumb "Bell of Brookfield 
 
 drams of nitro. Her own little twenty- 
 gauge could not have been heard to the 
 edge of the clearing. Her arm and shoul- 
 der were bruised to a throbbing ache. 
 
 She stood at the door listening for a 
 time, then she broke the gun and slipped 
 a shell in the right barrel. "All ready, 
 Tom?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 This time the heavy charge made her 
 stagger and forced an "Oh!" of pain 
 through her clenched teeth. 
 
 The cook reached for the gun. "You 
 can't do that no more," he said. "It'll 
 tear the arm off of you." 
 
 "I must," she said. "I can't hold the 
 door. If the lamp blows over again it 
 might explode." 
 
 "I'll hold her or bust a lung," said the 
 cook, "an' shoot with one hand." 
 
 Mrs. Gregory drew the gun away and 
 250
 
 Ordered On 
 
 gave the cook a white smile. "You're a 
 good man," she said with a nod. "When 
 this is over you must come back with us 
 to- What was that?" 
 
 The cook listened intently. He heard 
 what he had heard for the past hour, the 
 shriek of the wind and the rattle of ice 
 particles against the window. 
 
 But the mistress of Brookfield was a 
 woman, and women listen with more than 
 ears. 
 
 "Open the door!" she cried. "Quick, 
 quick!" 
 
 The cook obeyed. For an instant the 
 lamplight cut a yellow square a few yards 
 into the blackness before the door. It 
 was filled with a myriad particles of hiss- 
 ing snow. These gave place to a stagger- 
 ing figure that carried another figure in 
 its arms. Then the lamps blew out again. 
 
 When they were lighted a man of ice 
 251
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 stood in the room. He crackled and 
 tinkled when he moved, but he had the 
 voice of the master of Brookfield. 
 
 "Glad you fired," he croaked. "I'd 
 been hoping you would." He looked 
 down at the quiet figure he carried. 
 "Come and get him, Tom. I can't unbend 
 my arms." 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield did not ex- 
 plain that she had been firing for an hour 
 or more. She flew to the medicine case, 
 then to the kitchen, then back with a 
 steaming kettle. It was not until Mr. 
 Parmalee stirred beneath the blankets a 
 few moments later, then opened his eyes 
 and muttered her name, that she flew to 
 the master of Brookfield and asked a 
 question. 
 
 "Where," she said, "is Dumb-Bell?" 
 
 The master of Brookfield sat in an un- 
 heated room with his hands in a dishpan 
 252
 
 Ordered On 
 
 filled with snow. His face, despite him, 
 was twisted with pain. But the pain in 
 his eyes as she met them was not physical. 
 It was deeper and more lasting than the 
 small agony of frozen fingers. 
 
 "I ordered him on," he said, "just be- 
 fore it hit us. I looked as long as I 
 dared, and fired and whistled. I thought 
 he'd come back here." 
 
 "Oh!" she said, with a sudden intaking 
 of the breath. She returned to the main 
 room and picked up the twelve-gauge. 
 She picked the cook up bodily with her 
 eyes and set him at the door, daring him 
 with the same look to mention her arm 
 and shoulder. 
 
 "All ready, Tom," she said. "He'll 
 come to the gun if he hears it." 
 
 She fired until her blue-black arm re- 
 fused to lift the twelve-gauge any longer. 
 Then she took a camp stool close to the 
 253
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 door and sat there, waiting listening for 
 a whine or a scratch that never came. 
 
 When a grayness appeared at the win- 
 dows at last, the outside world was still 
 in a shrieking, whirling frenzy. But an 
 hour later the storm swept away to the 
 south as abruptly as it had come, and a 
 red sun was climbing a salmon sky above 
 the snow-bowed pines. 
 
 Beneath the pines the drifted snow was 
 blue, but in the clearings it was a daz- 
 zling, shimmering pink which crept up 
 the pines themselves, changing them to 
 lavender plumes filled with violet shad- 
 ows. 
 
 Not a breath of wind remained. The 
 pines were only painted on a painted sky. 
 The pink snow, too, was painted. The 
 whole wilderness had become unreal. It 
 was too scenic, too theatrical to be true, 
 254
 
 Ordered On 
 
 and Mrs. Gregory gasped as she stepped 
 into it. 
 
 "Jim," she said, "this isn't the world, 
 is it ? There never were such colors in the 
 world before." 
 
 The master of Brookfield squinted at 
 the blushing snow, the unbelievable sky, 
 and the still miracle of the pines with their 
 impossible shadows. 
 
 "Why, no," he said, at last. "It isn't 
 the world. It's the Happy Hunting 
 Ground, don't you remember?" 
 
 At this she looked at him. 
 
 "Ah, little Chief!" he said. And one 
 of his bandaged hands fumbled for one 
 of hers, and found it, and so they set out 
 with Tom ahead breaking trail and Mr. 
 Parmalee waving feebly from the door- 
 way. 
 
 They floundered on, peering into thick- 
 ets, eying small mounds of snow fearfully 
 255
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 but passing them without examination. 
 They would not admit, just yet, that one 
 of those innocent mounds could have a 
 dreadful secret. Now and then Tom 
 would fire into the air, and they would 
 stop and listen to the echoes of the shot 
 crashing among the pines. They called, 
 of course, and the master of Brookfield 
 whistled, but the clearings were filled with 
 snow and sunlight and the thickets with 
 snow and shadows, and that was all. 
 
 At last they found something. It was 
 a gun standing against a tree. 
 
 "It's mine," said Gregory. "Now I 
 know where I am." 
 
 He broke open the gun, took out the 
 shells, and blew the snow from the bar- 
 rels. He slipped the shells into the breech 
 automatically, closed the gun, and looked 
 about him. 
 
 "We were standing in the middle of 
 256
 
 Ordered On 
 
 that clearing," he said, pointing, "and I 
 ordered him on. He went toward the 
 farther end that's north, isn't it, Tom? 
 and then it hit us, and I never saw him 
 after that. Chief, you stand here to give 
 us our bearings and we'll make a circle 
 around you. You go one way, Tom, and 
 I'll go the other. We'll make the first 
 circle to take in the edge of the clearing 
 and widen for the next when we meet." 
 
 The mistress of Brookfield stood and 
 watched them go. Somehow it was a com- 
 fort to be here where the mannie had been. 
 His blessed paws must have pattered by 
 close to where she was standing. She 
 knew exactly how he looked when he went 
 by. He would be so earnest, so intent. 
 He seemed to take on a remoteness when 
 at work that shut her away almost com- 
 pletely from him. It was almost a sacri- 
 lege to hug him when he had to come in 
 257
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 with a dead bird and could not avoid her. 
 But who could help it when he looked like 
 that, so proud and important! 
 
 If she had only been here yesterday. If 
 she only had! If it was only now, this 
 minute, that he was passing and she could 
 call his name and see by the flicker of his 
 eye that he heard ! 
 
 She tried it. "Dumb-Bell!" she said 
 softly. "Mannie! Oh, Mannie!" ... She 
 could not see whether he passed or not. 
 She could see nothing until she found a 
 handkerchief in her sweater pocket. 
 
 Then, when she could see again, her 
 heart stopped beating, for Tom was wav- 
 ing to her and calling, and she ran toward 
 him floundering, stumbling, falling in the 
 snow. 
 
 When she had crossed the clearing and 
 saw what Tom was looking at she gave a 
 cry of thankfulness and joy. . . . There 
 258
 
 Ordered On 
 
 was the mannie alive ! He was standing 
 deep in the snow. He was pointing with 
 a high head and a level tail as he always 
 did. 
 
 And then she saw a look of amazement 
 in Tom's face. She came closer, and the 
 light left her eyes as she sank down on a 
 log and covered them with her hands. . . . 
 She did not move when the master of 
 Brookfield came and stood beside her. 
 
 Dumb-Bell was in a small glade, just 
 beyond the shadow of a great black pine. 
 He seemed to be carved in silver, for the 
 sunlight flashed and twinkled on the 
 sheath of ice which covered him from the 
 tip of his outstretched nose to the tip of 
 his outstretched tail. And if the ice had 
 been enduring silver, the perfection, the 
 certainty of his pose, could have served 
 as a model for all the champions yet to 
 come. 
 
 259
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 They watched him for awed moments 
 in a vast silence. And then the silence 
 was broken. From a white mound at 
 which he pointed there came a sound, a 
 scratching flutter. 
 
 The white mound, once a refuge, was 
 now an icy prison. Its occupant was 
 pecking and fluttering to be free. There 
 was a grouse in the brush heap! 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Gregory, and 
 then, "Let him out, Tom; kick the snow 
 away!" 
 
 But the mistress of Brookfield put her 
 hand on his arm. "No, no!" she said. 
 "No, no! He's held it for you all this 
 dreadful night in this horrible land 
 where he doesn't belong . . . my mannie, 
 my own little mannie!" 
 
 "I see," said Gregory. "Good girl!" 
 He waded to the white mound, kicked the 
 snow away and swung his foot against 
 260
 
 Ordered On 
 
 the pile of brush, the ice tinkling in the 
 dead branches. 
 
 The brush heap shivered. There was a 
 drumming of wings, a shower of snow, 
 and a big cock grouse shot for the blue 
 above the pines. There was a staccato 
 crash, a pungent breath of nitro powder, 
 and still he went, like a bronze rocket, 
 straight for that bit of sky. 
 
 The master of Brookfield winked the 
 dimness from his eyes and set his jaw. 
 The grouse topped the pines in a flashing 
 curve. He was gone ! No, not quite. He 
 had spread his wings for his sail over the 
 tree tops when he crumpled suddenly in 
 the air. 
 
 The master of Brookfield broke open 
 his smoking gun and looked at the small 
 white statue, banked in snow. 
 
 "Dead bird!" he said. "Dead bird, old 
 snoozer!" 
 
 261
 
 Dumb -Bell of Brookfield 
 
 But Champion Brookfield Dumb-Bell 
 gave no sign that he heard. He could no 
 longer stoop to a ruffed grouse lying in 
 the snow. His spirit was sweeping like 
 the wind over Elysian Fields and flashing 
 into point after point on celestial quail. 
 
 (2)
 
 000 126301 
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 Return this material to the library 
 which it was borrowed. 
 
 QlOCTi? 
 JAUGlft