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The Floating Press - Payson Terhune Albert

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52 pages

English

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Albert Payson Terhune, an acclaimed journalist and collie expert, shot to literary fame as the author of a beloved series of tales featuring his own collie, Lad. In His Dog, Terhune explores the dog-human bond from a different angle: a young farmer finds an injured dog and nurses it back to health, only to discover that the resulting friendship is more than he ever bargained for -- in more ways than one.

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Children's

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 avril 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775456063
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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HIS DOG
* * *
ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE

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His Dog First published in 1922 ISBN 978-1-77545-606-3 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Derelict Chapter II - The Battle Chapter III - The Ordeal Chapter IV - The Choice
Chapter I - The Derelict
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Link Ferris was a fighter. Not by nature, nor by choice, but to keepalive.
His battleground covered an area of forty acres—broken, scrubby,uncertain side-hill acres, at that. In brief, a worked-out farm amongthe mountain slopes of the North Jersey hinterland; six miles from thenearest railroad.
The farm was Ferris's, by right of sole heritage from his father, aCivil-War veteran, who had taken up the wilderness land in 1865 andwho, for thirty years thereafter, had wrought to make it pay. At bestthe elder Ferris had wrenched only a meager living from the light androck-infested soil.
The first-growth timber on the west woodlot for some time had stavedoff the need of a mortgage; its veteran oaks and hickories grimlygiving up their lives, in hundreds, to keep the wolf from the door oftheir owner. When the last of the salable timber was gone Old ManFerris tried his hand at truck farming, and sold his wares from a wagonto the denizens of Craigswold, the new colony of rich folk, four milesto northward.
But to raise such vegetables and fruits as would tempt the eyes and thepurses of Craigswold people it was necessary to have more than merezeal and industry. Sour ground will not readily yield sweet abundance,be the toiler ever so industrious. Moreover, there was large andgrowing competition, in the form of other huckster routes.
And presently the old veteran wearied of the eternal uphill struggle.He mortgaged the farm, dying soon afterward. And Link, his son, wasleft to carry on the thankless task.
Link Ferris was as much a part of the Ferris farm as was the giantbowlder in the south mowing. He had been born in the paintless shackwhich his father had built with his own rheumatic hands. He had workedfor more than a quarter century, in and out of the hill fields and theramshackle barns. From babyhood he had toiled there. Scant had been thechances for schooling, and more scant had been the opportunities foroutside influence.
Wherefore, Link had grown to a wirily weedy and slouching manhood,almost as ignorant of the world beyond his mountain walls as were anyof his own "critters." His life was bounded by fruitless labor, variedonly by such sleep and food as might fit him to labor the harder.
He ate and slept, that he might be able to work. And he worked, that hemight be able to eat and sleep. Beyond that, his life was as barren asa rainy sea.
If he dreamed of other and wider things, the workaday grind speedilyset such dreams to rout. When the gnawing of lonely unrest was tooacute for bovine endurance—and when he could spare the time or themoney—he was wont to go to the mile-off hamlet of Hampton and thereget as nearly drunk as his funds would permit.
It was his only surcease. And as a rule, it was a poor one. For seldomdid he have enough ready money to buy wholesale forgetfulness. Moreoften he was able to purchase only enough hard cider or fuseloil whiskyto make him dull and vaguely miserable.
It was on his way home one Saturday night from such a rudimentarydebauch at Hampton that his Adventure had its small beginning.
For a half mile or so of Link's homeward pilgrimage—before he turnedoff into the grass-grown, rutted hill trail which led to his farm—hisway led along a spur of the state road which linked New York City withthe Ramapo hill country.
And here, as Link swung glumly along through the springtide dusk, hisears were assailed by a sound that was something between a sigh and asob—a sound as of one who tries valiantly to stifle a whimper of sharppain.
Ferris halted, uncertain, at the road edge; and peered about him. Againhe heard the sound. And this time he located it in the long grass ofthe wayside ditch. The grass was stirring spasmodically, too, as withthe half-restrained writhings of something lying close to earth there.
Link struck a match. Shielding the flame, he pushed the tangle of grassto one side with his foot.
There, exposed in the narrow space thus cleared and by the narrowerradius of match flare, crouched a dog.
The brute was huddled in a crumpled heap, with one foreleg stuckawkwardly out in front of him at an impossible angle. His tawny mass ofcoat was mired and oil streaked. In his deep-set brown eyes burned thefires of agony.
Yet, as he looked up at the man who bent above him, the dog's gaze wasneither fierce nor cringing. It held rather such an expression as,Dumas tells us, the wounded Athos turned to D'Artagnan—the aspect ofone in sore need of aid, and too proud to plead for it.
Link Ferris had never heard of Dumas, nor of the immortal musketeer.None the less, he could read that look. And it appealed to him, as nohowl of anguish could have appealed. He knelt beside the suffering dogand fell to examining his hurts.
The dog was a collie—beautiful of head, sweepingly graceful of line,powerful and heavy coated. The mud on his expanse of snowy chest frilland the grease on his dark brown back were easy to account for, even toLink Ferris's none-too-keen imagination.
Link, in his own occasional trudges along this bit of state road, hadoften seen costly dogs in the tonneaus of passing cars. He had seenseveral of them scramble frantically to maintain their footing on theslippery seats of such cars; when chauffeurs took the sharp curve, justahead, at too high speed. He had even seen one Airedale flung bodilyfrom a car's rear seat at that curve, and out into the roadway; where aclose-following motor had run over and killed it.
This collie, doubtless, had had such a fall; and, unseen by the frontseat's occupants, had struck ground with terrific force—a force thathad sent him whirling through mud and grease into the ditch, with abroken front leg.
How long the beast had lain there Link had no way of guessing. But thedog was in mortal agony. And the kindest thing to do was to put him outof his pain.
Ferris groped around through the gloom until, in the ditch, his fingersclosed over a ten-pound stone. One smashing blow on the head, with thismissile, would bring a swift and merciful end to the sufferer'stroubles.
Poising the stone aloft, Link turned back to where the dog lay.Standing over the victim, he balanced the rock and tensed his musclesfor the blow. The match had long since gone out, but Link'sdusk-accustomed vision could readily discern the outlines of thecollie. And he made ready to strike.
Then—perhaps it was the drink playing tricks with Ferris's mind—itseemed to him that he could still see those deep-set dark eyes staringup at him through the murk, with that same fearless and yet piteouslook in their depths. It was a look that the brief sputter ofmatch-light had photographed on Link's brain.
"I—I ain't got the heart to swat you while you keep lookin' that wayat me," he muttered half-aloud, as if to a human companion. "Jes' youturn your head the other way, pup! It'll be over quick, an' easy."
By the faint light Link could see the dog had not obeyed the order toturn his head. But at the man's tone of compassion the great plumytail began to thump the ground in feeble response.
"H'm!" grunted Link, letting the stone drop to the road, "got nerve,too, ain't you, friend? 'Tain't every cuss that can wag his tail whenhis leg's bust."
Kneeling down again he examined the broken foreleg more carefully.Gentle as was his touch, yet Link knew it must cause infinite torture.But the dog did not flinch. He seemed to understand that Ferris meantkindly, for he moved his magnificent head far enough to lick the man'shand softly and in gratitude.
The caress had an odd effect on the loveless Ferris. It was the firstvoluntary mark of affection he had encountered for longer than he likedto remember. It set old memories to working.
The Ferris farm, since Link's birth, had been perhaps the only home inall that wild region which did not boast a dog of some kind. Link'sfather had had an inborn hatred of dogs. He would not allow one on theplace. His overt excuse was that they killed sheep and worried cattle,and that he could not afford to risk the well-being of his scanty hoardof stock.
Thus, Link had grown to manhood with no dog at his heels, and withoutknowing the normal human's love for canine chumship.
The primal instinct, long buried, stirred within him now; at touch ofthe warm tongue on his calloused hand and at sound of that friendlytail wagging in the dry grass. Ashamed of the stirrings in him, hesought to explain them by reminding himself that this was probably avaluable animal and that a reward might be offered for his return. Inwhich case Link Ferris might as well profit by the cash windfall asanyone else.
Taking off his coat, Ferris spread it on the ground. Then, lifting thestricken collie as gently as he could, he deposited him on the coat androlled its frayed edges about him. After which he picked up the swathedinvalid and bore him home.
During the mile trudge the collie's sixty pounds grew unbearably heavy,to the half-drunk Ferris. More than once he was minded to set down hisburden and leave the brute to his fate.
But always the tardy realization that the journey was more painful tothe dog than to himself gave Link a fresh grip on his determination.And at last,—a