His Dog | Page 4

permit.
It was his only surcease. And as a rule, it was a poor one. For seldom
did he have enough ready money to buy wholesale forgetfulness. More
often he was able to purchase only enough hard cider or fuseloil whisky
to make him dull and vaguely miserable.
It was on his way home one Saturday night from such a rudimentary
debauch at Hampton that his Adventure had its small beginning.
For a half mile or so of Link's homeward pilgrimage--before he turned
off into the grass-grown, rutted hill trail which led to his farm--his way
led along a spur of the state road which linked New York City with the
Ramapo hill country.
And here, as Link swung glumly along through the springtide dusk, his
ears were assailed by a sound that was something between a sigh and a
sob--a sound as of one who tries valiantly to stifle a whimper of sharp
pain.
Ferris halted, uncertain, at the road edge; and peered about him. Again
he heard the sound. And this time he located it in the long grass of the
wayside ditch. The grass was stirring spasmodically, too, as with the
half-restrained writhings of something lying close to earth there.
Link struck a match. Shielding the flame, he pushed the tangle of grass
to one side with his foot.
There, exposed in the narrow space thus cleared and by the narrower
radius of match flare, crouched a dog.
The brute was huddled in a crumpled heap, with one foreleg stuck
awkwardly out in front of him at an impossible angle. His tawny mass
of coat was mired and oil streaked. In his deep-set brown eyes burned
the fires of agony.
Yet, as he looked up at the man who bent above him, the dog's gaze
was neither fierce nor cringing. It held rather such an expression as,

Dumas tells us, the wounded Athos turned to D'Artagnan--the aspect of
one 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 no
howl of anguish could have appealed. He knelt beside the suffering dog
and 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
frill and the grease on his dark brown back were easy to account for,
even to Link Ferris's none-too-keen imagination.
Link, in his own occasional trudges along this bit of state road, had
often seen costly dogs in the tonneaus of passing cars. He had seen
several of them scramble frantically to maintain their footing on the
slippery seats of such cars; when chauffeurs took the sharp curve, just
ahead, at too high speed. He had even seen one Airedale flung bodily
from a car's rear seat at that curve, and out into the roadway; where a
close-following motor had run over and killed it.
This collie, doubtless, had had such a fall; and, unseen by the front
seat's occupants, had struck ground with terrific force--a force that had
sent him whirling through mud and grease into the ditch, with a broken
front leg.
How long the beast had lain there Link had no way of guessing. But the
dog was in mortal agony. And the kindest thing to do was to put him
out of his pain.
Ferris groped around through the gloom until, in the ditch, his fingers
closed over a ten-pound stone. One smashing blow on the head, with
this missile, would bring a swift and merciful end to the sufferer's
troubles.
Poising the stone aloft, Link turned back to where the dog lay. Standing
over the victim, he balanced the rock and tensed his muscles for the
blow. The match had long since gone out, but Link's dusk-accustomed
vision could readily discern the outlines of the collie. And he made
ready to strike.
Then--perhaps it was the drink playing tricks with Ferris's mind--it
seemed to him that he could still see those deep-set dark eyes staring up
at him through the murk, with that same fearless and yet piteous look in
their depths. It was a look that the brief sputter of match-light had

photographed on Link's brain.
"I--I ain't got the heart to swat you while you keep lookin' that way at
me," he muttered half-aloud, as if to a human companion. "Jes' you turn
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 to
turn his head. But at the man's tone of compassion the great plumy tail
began to thump the ground in feeble response.
"H'm!"