"ONE MINUTE LONGER"
Wolf was a collie, red-gold and white of coat, with a shape more likehis long-ago wolf ancestors' than like a domesticated dog's. It wasfrom this ancestral throw-back that he was named Wolf.
He looked not at all like his great sire, Sunnybank Lad, nor like hisdainty, thoroughbred mother, Lady. Nor was he like them in any otherway, except that he inherited old Lad's staunchly gallant spirit andloyalty, and uncanny brain. No, in traits as well as in looks, he wasmore wolf than dog. He almost never barked, his snarl supplying allvocal needs.
The Mistress or the Master or the Boy--any of these three could rompwith him, roll him over, tickle him, or subject him to all sorts ofplayful indignities. And Wolf entered gleefully into the fun of theromp. But let any human, besides these three, lay a hand on hisslender body, and a snarling plunge for the offender's throat wasWolf's invariable reply to the caress.
It had been so since his puppyhood. He did not fly at accreditedguests, nor, indeed, pay any heed to their presence, so long as theykept their hands off him. But to all of these the Boy was forced tosay at the very outset of the visit:
"Pat Lad and Bruce all you want to, but please leave Wolf alone. Hedoesn't care for people. We've taught him to stand for a pat on thehead, from guests,--but don't touch his body."
Then, to prove his own immunity, the Boy would proceed to tumble Wolfabout, to the delight of them both.
In romping with humans whom they love, most dogs will bite, more orless gently,--or pretend to bite,--as a part of the game. Wolf neverdid this. In his wildest and roughest romps with the Boy or with theBoy's parents, Wolf did not so much as open his mighty jaws. Perhapsbecause he dared not trust himself to bite gently. Perhaps because herealised that a bite is not a joke, but an effort to kill.
There had been only one exception to Wolf's hatred for mauling atstrangers' hands. A man came to The Place on a business call, bringingalong a chubby two-year-old daughter. The Master warned the baby thatshe must not go near Wolf, although she might pet any of the othercollies. Then he became so much interested in the business talk thathe and his guest forgot all about the child.
Ten minutes later the Master chanced to shift his gaze to the far endof the room. And he broke off, with a gasp, in the very middle of asentence.
The baby was seated astride Wolf's back, her tiny heels digging intothe dog's sensitive ribs, and each of her chubby fists gripping one ofhis ears. Wolf was lying there, with an idiotically happy grin on hisface and wagging his tail in ecstasy.
No one knew why he had submitted to the baby's tugging hands, exceptbecause she _was_ a baby, and because the gallant heart of the dog hadgone out to her helplessness.
Wolf was the official watch-dog of The Place; and his name carrieddread to the loafers and tramps of the region. Also, he was the Boy'sown special dog. He had been born on the Boy's tenth birthday, fiveyears before this story of ours begins; and ever since then the twohad been inseparable chums.
One sloppy afternoon in late winter, Wolf and the Boy were sprawled,side by side, on the fur rug in front of the library fire. TheMistress and the Master had gone to town for the day. The house waslonely, and the two chums were left to entertain each other.
The Boy was reading a magazine. The dog beside him was blinking indrowsy comfort at the fire. Presently, finishing the story he hadbeen reading, the Boy looked across at the sleepy dog.
"Wolf," he said, "here's a story about a dog. I think hemust have been something like you. Maybe he was yourgreat-great-great-great-grandfather. He lived an awfully long timeago--in Pompeii. Ever hear of Pompeii?"
Now, the Boy was fifteen years old, and he had too much sense toimagine that Wolf could possibly understand the story he was about totell him. But, long since, he had fallen into a way of talking to hisdog, sometimes, as if to another human. It was fun for him to note thealmost pathetic eagerness wherewith Wolf listened and tried to graspthe meaning of what he was saying. Again and again, at sound of somefamiliar word or voice inflection, the collie would pick up his earsor wag his tail, as if in the joyous hope that he had at last found aclue to his owner's meaning.
"You see," went on the Boy, "this dog lived in Pompeii, as I told you.You've never been there, Wolf."
Wolf was looking up at the Boy in wistful excitement, seeking vainlyto guess what was expected of him.
"And," continued the Boy, "the kid who owned him seems to have had aregular knack for getting into trouble all the time. And his dog wasalways on hand to get him out of it. It's a true story, the magazinesays. The kid's father was so grateful to the dog that he bought him asolid silver collar. Solid silver! Get that, Wolfie?"
Wolf did not "get it." But he wagged his tail hopefully, his eyesalight with bewildered interest.
"And," said the Boy, "what do you suppose was engraved on the collar?Well, I'll tell you: '_This dog has thrice saved his little masterfrom death. Once by fire, once by flood, and once at the hands ofrobbers!_' How's that for a record, Wolf? For _one_ dog, too!"
At the words "Wolf" and "dog," the collie's tail smote the floor inglad comprehension. Then he edged closer to the Boy as the narrator'svoice presently took on a sadder note.
"But at last," resumed the Boy, "there came a time when the dogcouldn't save the kid. Mount Vesuvius erupted. All the sky waspitch-dark, as black as midnight, and Pompeii was buried under lavaand ashes. The dog could easily have got away by himself,--dogs cansee in the dark, can't they, Wolf?--but he couldn't get the kid away.And he wouldn't go without him. You wouldn't have gone without me,either, would you, Wolf? Pretty nearly two thousand years later, somepeople dug through the lava that covered Pompeii. What do you supposethey found? Of course they found a whole lot of things. One of themwas that dog--silver collar and inscription and all. He was lying atthe feet of a child. The child he couldn't save. He was one granddog--hey, Wolf?"
The continued strain of trying to understand began to get on thecollie's high-strung nerves. He rose to his feet, quivering, andsought to lick the Boy's face, thrusting one upraised white forepaw athim in appeal for a handshake. The Boy slammed shut the magazine.
"It's slow in the house, here, with nothing to do," he said to hischum. "I'm going up the lake with my gun to see if any wild ducks havelanded in the marshes yet. It's almost time for them. Want to comealong?"
The last sentence Wolf understood perfectly. On the instant he wasdancing with excitement at the prospect of a walk. Being a collie, hewas of no earthly help in a hunting-trip; but, on such tramps, aseverywhere else, he was the Boy's inseparable companion.
Out over the slushy snow the two started, the Boy with his lightsingle-barrelled shotgun slung over one shoulder, the dog trottingclose at his heels. The March thaw was changing to a sharp freeze. Thedeep and soggy snow was crusted over, just thick enough to makewalking a genuine difficulty for both dog and Boy.
The Place was a promontory that ran out into the lake, on the oppositebank from the mile-distant village. Behind, across the highroad, laythe winter-choked forest. At the lake's northerly end, two milesbeyond The Place, were the reedy marshes where, a month hence, wildduck would congregate. Thither, with Wolf, the Boy ploughed his waythrough the biting cold.
The going was heavy and heavier. A quarter-mile below the marshes theBoy struck out across the upper corner of the lake. Here the ice wasrotten at the top, where the thaw had nibbled at it, but beneath itwas still a full eight inches thick; easily strong enough to bear theBoy's weight.
Along the grey ice-field the two plodded. The skim of water, which thethaw had spread an inch thick over the ice, had frozen in the day'scold spell. It crackled like broken glass as the chums walked over it.The Boy had on big hunting-boots. So, apart from the extra effort, theglass-like ice did not bother him. To Wolf it gave acute pain. Thesharp particles were forever getting between the callous black pads ofhis feet, pricking and cutting him acutely.
Little smears of blood began to mark the dog's course; but it neveroccurred to Wolf to turn back,
or to betray by any sign that he wassuffering. It was all a part of the day's work--a cheap price to payfor the joy of tramping with his adored young master.
Then, forty yards or so on the hither side of the marshes, Wolf behelda right amazing phenomenon. The Boy had been walking directly in frontof him, gun over shoulder. With no warning at all, the youthful hunterfell, feet foremost, out of sight, through the ice.
The light shell of new-frozen water that covered the lake's thickerice also masked an air-hole nearly three feet wide. Into this, as hestrode carelessly along, the Boy had stepped. Straight down he hadgone, with all the force of his hundred-and-twenty pounds and with allthe impetus of his forward stride.
Instinctively, he threw out his hands to restore his balance. The onlyeffect of this was to send the gun flying ten feet away.
Down went the Boy through less than three feet of water (for thebottom of the lake at this point had started to slope upward towardsthe marshes) and through nearly two feet more of sticky marsh mud thatunderlay the lake-bed.
His outflung hands struck against the ice on the edges of theair-hole, and clung there.
Sputtering and gurgling, the Boy brought his head above the surfaceand tried to raise himself by his hands, high enough to wriggle outupon the surface of the ice. Ordinarily, this would have been simpleenough for so strong a lad. But the glue-like mud had imprisoned hisfeet and the lower part of his legs; and held them powerless.
Try as he would, the Boy could not wrench himself free of the slough.The water, as he stood upright, was on a level with his mouth. Theair-hole was too wide for him, at such a depth, to get a good purchaseon its edges and lift himself bodily to safety.
Gaining such a finger-hold as he could, he heaved with all his might,throwing every muscle of his body into the struggle. One leg waspulled almost free of the mud, but the other was driven deeper intoit. And, as the Boy's fingers slipped from the smoothly wet ice-edge,the attempt to restore his balance drove the free leg back, knee-deepinto the mire.
Ten minutes of this hopeless fighting left the Boy panting and tiredout. The icy water was numbing his nerves and chilling his blood intotorpidity. His hands were without sense of feeling, as far up as thewrists. Even if he could have shaken free his legs from the mud, now,he had not strength enough left to crawl out of the hole.
He ceased his uselessly frantic battle and stood dazed. Then he camesharply to himself. For, as he stood, the water crept upward from hislips to his nostrils. He knew why the water seemed to be rising. Itwas not rising. It was he who was sinking. As soon as he stoppedmoving, the mud began, very slowly, but very steadily, to suck himdownward.
This was not a quicksand, but it was a deep mud-bed. And only byconstant motion could he avoid sinking farther and farther down intoit. He had less than two inches to spare, at best, before the watershould fill his nostrils; less than two inches of life, even if hecould keep the water down to the level of his lips.
There was a moment of utter panic. Then the Boy's brain cleared. Hisonly hope was to keep on fighting--to rest when he must, for a momentor so, and then to renew his numbed grip on the ice-edge and try topull his feet a few inches higher out of the mud. He must do this aslong as his chilled body could be scourged into obeying his will.
He struggled again, but with virtually no result in raising himself. Asecond struggle, however, brought him chin-high above the water. Heremembered confusedly that some of these earlier struggles had scarcebudged him, while others had gained him two or three inches. Vaguely,he wondered why. Then turning his head, he realised.
Wolf, as he turned, was just loosing his hold on the wide collar ofthe Boy's mackinaw. His cut forepaws were still braced against a flawof ragged ice on the air-hole's edge, and all his tawny body wastense.
His body was dripping wet, too. The Boy noted that; and he realisedthat the repeated effort to draw his master to safety must haveresulted, at least once, in pulling the dog down into the water withthe floundering Boy.
"Once more, Wolfie! _Once more!_" chattered the Boy through teeth thatclicked together like castanets.
The dog darted forward, caught his grip afresh on the edge of theBoy's collar, and tugged with all his fierce strength; growling andwhining ferociously the while.
The Boy seconded the collie's tuggings by a supreme struggle thatlifted him higher than before. He was able to get one arm and shoulderclear. His numb fingers closed about an upthrust tree-limb which hadbeen washed down stream in the autumn freshets and had been frozeninto the lake ice.
With this new purchase, and aided by the dog, the boy tried to draghimself out of the hole. But the chill of the water had done its work.He had not the strength to move farther. The mud still sucked at hiscalves and ankles. The big hunting-boots were full of water thatseemed to weigh a ton.
He lay there, gasping and chattering. Then, through the gatheringtwilight, his eyes fell on the gun, lying ten feet away.
"Wolf!" he ordered, nodding towards the weapon. "Get it! _Get_ it!"
Not in vain had the Boy talked to Wolf, for years, as if the dog werehuman. At the words and the nod, the collie trotted over to the gun,lifted it by the stock, and hauled it awkwardly along over the bumpyice to his master, where he laid it down at the edge of the air-hole.
The dog's eyes were cloudy with trouble, and he shivered and whined aswith ague. The water on his thick coat was freezing to a mass of ice.But it was from anxiety that he shivered, and not from cold.
Still keeping his numb grasp on the tree-branch, the boy balancedhimself as best he could, and thrust two fingers of his free hand intohis mouth to warm them into sensation again.
When this was done, he reached out to where the gun lay, and pulledits trigger. The shot boomed deafeningly through the twilight wintersilences. The recoil sent the weapon sliding sharply back along theice, spraining the Boy's trigger finger and cutting it to the bone.
"That's all I can do," said the Boy to himself. "If anyone hears it,well and good. I can't get at another cartridge. I couldn't put itinto the breech if I had it. My hands are too numb."
For several endless minutes he clung there, listening. But this was adesolate part of the lake, far from any road; and the season was tooearly for other hunters to be abroad. The bitter cold, in any case,tended to make sane folk hug the fireside rather than to venture sofar into the open. Nor was the single report of a gun uncommon enoughto call for investigation in such weather.
All this the Boy told himself, as the minutes dragged by. Then helooked again at Wolf. The dog, head on one side, still stoodprotectingly above him. The dog was cold and in pain. But, being onlya dog, it did not occur to him to trot off home to the comfort of thelibrary fire and leave his master to fend for himself.
Presently, with a little sigh, Wolf lay down on the ice, his noseacross the Boy's arm. Even if he lacked strength to save his belovedmaster, he could stay and share the Boy's sufferings.
But the Boy himself thought otherwise. He was not at all minded tofreeze to death, nor was he willing to let Wolf imitate the dog ofPompeii by dying helplessly at his master's side. Controlling for aninstant the chattering of his teeth, he called:
"Wolf!"
The dog was on his feet again at the word; alert, eager.
"Wolf!" repeated the Boy. "_Go!_ Hear me? _Go!_"
He pointed homeward.
Wolf stared at him, hesitant. Again the Boy called in vehementcommand, "_Go!_"
The collie lifted his head to the twilight sky with a wolf-howlhideous in its grief and appeal--a howl as wild and discordant as thatof any of his savage ancestors. Then, stooping first to lick the numbhand that clung to the branch, Wolf turned and fled.
Across the cruelly sharp film of ice he tore, at top speed, head down;whirling through the deepening dusk like a flash of tawny light.
Wolf understood what was wanted of him. Wolf always understood. Thepain in his feet was as nothing. The stiffness of his numbed body wasforgotten in the urgency for speed.
The Boy l
ooked drearily after the swift-vanishing figure which thedusk was swallowing. He knew the dog would try to bring help; as hasmany another and lesser dog in times of need. Whether or not that helpcould arrive in time, or at all, was a point on which the Boy wouldnot let himself dwell. Into his benumbed brain crept the memory of anold Norse proverb he had read in school:
"_Heroism consists in hanging on, one minute longer._"
Unconsciously he tightened his feeble hold on the tree-branch andbraced himself.
* * * * *
From the marshes to The Place was a full two miles. Despite the deepand sticky snow, Wolf covered the distance in less than nine minutes.He paused in front of the gate-lodge, at the highway entrance to thedrive. But the superintendent and his wife had gone to Paterson,shopping, that afternoon.
Down the drive to the house he dashed. The maids had taken advantageof their employers' day in New York, to walk across the lake to thevillage, to a motion-picture show.
Wise men claim that dogs have not the power to think or to reasonthings out in a logical way. So perhaps it was mere chance that nextsent Wolf's flying feet across the lake to the village. Perhaps it waschance, and not the knowledge that where there is a village there arepeople.
Again and again, in the car, he had sat upon the front seat alongsidethe Mistress when she drove to the station to meet guests. There werealways people at the station. And to the station Wolf now raced.
The usual group of platform idlers had been dispersed by the cold. Asolitary baggageman was hauling a trunk and some boxes out of theexpress-coop on to the platform; to be put aboard the five o'clocktrain from New York.
As the baggageman passed under the clump of station lights, he came toa sudden halt. For out of the darkness dashed a dog. Full tilt, theanimal rushed up to him and seized him by the skirt of the overcoat.
The man cried out in scared surprise. He dropped the box he wascarrying and struck at the dog, to ward off the seemingly murderousattack. He recognised Wolf, and he knew the collie's repute.
But Wolf was not attacking. Holding tight to the coat-skirt, he backedaway, trying to draw the man with him, and all the while whimperingaloud like a nervous puppy.
A kick from the heavy-shod boot broke the dog's hold on thecoat-skirt, even as a second yell from the man brought four or fiveother people running out from the station waitingroom.
One of these, the telegraph operator, took in the scene at a singleglance. With great presence of mind he bawled loudly:
"MAD DOG!"
This, as Wolf, reeling from the kick, sought to gain another grip onthe coat-skirt. A second kick sent him rolling over and over on thetracks, while other voices took up the panic cry of "Mad dog!"
Now, a mad dog is supposed to be a dog afflicted by rabies. Once inten thousand times, at the very most, a mad-dog hue-and-cry isjustified. Certainly not oftener. A harmless and friendly dog loseshis master on the street. He runs about, confused and frightened,looking for the owner he has lost. A boy throws a stone at him. Otherboys chase him. His tongue hangs out, and his eyes glaze with terror.Then some fool bellows:
"Mad dog!"
And the cruel chase is on--a chase that ends in the pitiful victim'sdeath. Yes, in every crowd there is a voice ready to raise thatasinine and murderously cruel shout.
So it was with the men who witnessed Wolf's frenzied effort to takeaid to the imperilled Boy.
Voice after voice repeated the cry. Men groped along the platform edgefor stones to throw. The village policeman ran puffingly upon thescene, drawing his revolver.
Finding it useless to make a further attempt to drag the baggageman tothe rescue, Wolf leaped back, facing the ever larger group. Back wenthis head again in that hideous wolf-howl. Then he galloped away a fewyards, trotted back, howled once more, and again galloped lakeward.
All of which only confirmed the panicky crowd in the belief that theywere threatened by a mad dog. A shower of stones hurtled about Wolf ashe came back a third time to lure these dull humans into followinghim.
One pointed rock smote the collie's shoulder, glancingly, cutting itto the bone. A shot from the policeman's revolver fanned the fur ofhis ruff, as it whizzed past.
Knowing that he faced death, he nevertheless stood his ground, nottroubling to dodge the fusillade of stones, but continuing to runlakeward and then trot back, whining with excitement.
A second pistol-shot flew wide. A third grazed the dog's hip. From alldirections people were running towards the station. A man darted intoa house next door, and emerged carrying a shotgun. This he steadied onthe veranda-rail not forty feet away from the leaping dog, and madeready to fire.
It was then the train from New York came in. And, momentarily, thesport of "mad-dog" killing was abandoned, while the crowd scattered toeach side of the track.
From a front car of the train the Mistress and the Master emerged intoa bedlam of noise and confusion.
"Best hide in the station, Ma'am!" shouted the telegraph operator, atsight of the Mistress. "There is a mad dog loose out here! He'schasing folks around, and----"
"Mad dog!" repeated the Mistress in high contempt. "If you knewanything about dogs, you'd know mad ones never 'chase folks around,'any more than diphtheria patients do. Then----"
A flash of tawny light beneath the station lamp, a scurrying offrightened idlers, a final wasted shot from the policeman'spistol,--as Wolf dived headlong through the frightened crowd towardsthe voice he heard and recognised.
Up to the Mistress and the Master galloped Wolf. He was bleeding, hiseyes were bloodshot, his fur was rumpled. He seized the astoundedMaster's gloved hand lightly between his teeth and sought to pull himacross the tracks and towards the lake.
The Master knew dogs. Especially he knew Wolf. And without a word hesuffered himself to be led. The Mistress and one or two inquisitivemen followed.
Presently, Wolf loosed his hold on the Master's hand and ran on ahead,darting back every few moments to make certain he was followed.
"_Heroism--consists--in--hanging--on--one--minute--longer_," the Boywas whispering deliriously to himself for the hundredth time; as Wolfpattered up to him in triumph, across the ice, with the human rescuersa scant ten yards behind.