DICK'S RETRIEVER

BY

E. M. STOOKE

Author of "Tim and Jim," "A Reformatory Boy," &c. &c.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LIMITED,

LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK. 1921

CONTENTS.

I. THE ARRIVAL

II. DICK RUNS AN ERRAND

III. DICK'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE BULLY

IV. TEN SHILLINGS REWARD

V. DICK'S INTERVIEW WITH THE COLONEL

VI. HARD TIMES

VII. A GALLANT RESCUE

VIII. STRANGER'S MISSION FULFILLED

DICK'S RETRIEVER.

CHAPTER I.

THE ARRIVAL.

IT was a wild, dark night. The rain was coming down in torrents, the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Creak! Creak! How the branches of the elm trees groaned as they swayed to and fro outside the tiny cottage where Widow Wilkins and her eldest child—a delicate looking boy of twelve—crouched over a dying fire!

"Hark, mother, to the wind! Isn't it terrible?" little Dick exclaimed in awe-stricken tones.

"Yes," said the widow, "it's a dreadful night. I shudder to think of the poor sailors out at sea. Depend on it, there'll be lots of wrecks before morning, unless the wind goes down, and that pretty soon."

With this, she turned her head towards the door, beneath which she had stuffed some old matting to keep out the draught.

"I thought," she went on after a few minutes' pause, "I heard a cry, but suppose it was only my fancy. One thing's certain, it can't be from upstairs, 'cos the children are asleep."

"P'raps it's the wind in the chimney or in the branches of the trees you hear, mother," said the little boy. "It makes all kinds of sounds when there's a gale on like this. Listen! I heard a cry then—sure enough I did! 'Twas like the whine of a dog, only very low and weak. What do you say—shall we open the door and look? Something is going 'scratch, scratch,' now," he cried, jumping excitedly to his feet.

"It's late to open the door, Dick," protested his mother nervously. "Who's to tell that it isn't some drunken body playing a trick upon us. Mind we've no near neighbours to shout to if we should want help ever so bad!"

"I know, I know; but I ain't a bit afraid. And we couldn't go to bed without seeing what was outside. If it isn't a dog, why, then, maybe it's a child."

The widow looked disturbed. She rose from her chair, raked the dying embers together in the fireplace, and lit the candle; for she and Dick had been sitting the last half-hour by firelight—they always did so to save lamp oil after she had put away her sewing at nine o'clock on winter evenings.

"Here, mother, you stand back whilst I undo the door," directed Dick.

Mrs. Wilkins, not without some slight misgivings, did as she was bid. Meanwhile Dick went to the door—his small face pale with anticipation—and withdrew the heavy bolts. This done, he lifted the latch, and as a result a gust of storm-wind swept into the cottage kitchen, and a crouching, shivering retriever entered.

"Oh!" cried the child. "What a poor wretched thing! See, mother," he continued, as he shut the door and followed the dog into the centre of the room, "he's soaked to the skin, and there's a rope round his neck with a big stone at the end of it! I know; I see what that means. Some one has been trying to drown him in the river yonder."

"I reckon your guess isn't far out, Dick," agreed the widow. "Here, you poor creature, let me look at you. Why, you're cold as ice, and one of your paws is bleeding!"

Then, turning her kind face to her little son, who stood looking down on their visitor with pitying eyes, she went on,—

"Throw a few kindling sticks on those embers, child; and take the bellows and blow the fire into a blaze. 'Tisn't often you and I get a chance of doing good, 'cos we're so poor; but we'll do the best we can for this miserable creature, though he is but a dog."

"He's a real retriever, I believe," said the enthusiastic little boy, hastily placing some sticks crosswise on the dying coals, and reaching forward for the bellows. "See how affectionately he's licking my hand, mother! Why, what are you going to do to him with that great cloth you've got?"

"Dry him a bit, to be sure," was the woman's answer. And straightway she knelt down and began to rub the animal's rain-sodden coat. "We shall never get him warm as he is," she continued, "for he's so wet the water is running off him into pools on the floor. Try and take off the rope, Dick. And when you've done it, get me a rag and a piece of string, and I'll bandage up his paw—it's very sore; I find he can hardly bear me to touch it."

Dick wanted no second bidding. Setting to work with nimble fingers, he soon succeeded in untying the knotted rope that had in some places rubbed the dog's neck into wounds. This done, he went to a cupboard and took from it a ragged but clean apron of his sister's, which Mrs. Wilkins split into strips and bound round the retriever's injured foot.

Having at length dried the dog to their satisfaction, they coaxed him on to an old sack that they had spread in front of the hearth; and dumb though he was, the intelligent creature raised his brown eyes to their faces as if to thank them for their mercy and compassion. Little Dick brought some scraps left over from the children's supper and laid them before the animal; he also offered him some warm milk and water to drink. But so great was the dog's exhaustion that he made no effort to drink or eat; instead, he lay back with a sigh of contentment, and extended his cramped limbs towards the comforting blaze. In this position, he was soon asleep.

"Mother," said Dick in a low whisper, after several minutes' silence, "he's uncommon pretty, now he's dry. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I do," assented Mrs. Wilkins. "No one could truthfully call him ugly with such a fine curly coat as he's got. And he seems gentle too," she added. "I can't think how folks can find it in their hearts to be cruel to a dumb thing like him."

The mother and her son sat still for a time, silently admiring the beautiful animal.

"Mother," said Dick, breaking the silence, "don't you wish we could keep him—for always, I mean? 'Twould be proper fun to see him swim in the river to fetch out sticks."

Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.

"Mother!" Dick's voice was low and coaxing; he slipped on to the floor and laid his head upon his mother's knee. "Do let us keep this poor dog that's come to our door to-night. He shall have half of my dinner every day, and a part of my supper too. O mother, do say yes!"

"Maybe he'll stray away when to-morrow comes."

"Yes, yes; but if he doesn't?"

"Well, Dick, it's not to be thought of—our keeping him—I'm afraid. You see, a big dog eats a lot; more than you could spare him from your meals every day, that's certain. Then, again, there'd be his tax; I couldn't afford to pay it. But," hopefully, "p'raps he'll be claimed."

The boy shook his head, and pointed at the rope.

"Whoever tried to drown him doesn't want him back," he said wisely. "Do you know what I believe, mother?"

"No, Dick. How should I know?"

"Well, I believe God means us to keep him, and I'll tell you what makes me think so. God knows what happens everywhere. The parson said so last Sunday. He told us that there wasn't anything too small or poor to escape God's notice. So He must know that this poor dog has come whining to our door." Then, positively, "Of course He does!"

Mrs. Wilkins was silent.

Dick earnestly continued,—

"'Tisn't as if God ever made mistakes. He knows we're poor folks, and that at times we can scarcely find food for ourselves. Depend upon it, He won't let us lose by giving this dear old fellow a home. And when the time comes for paying his tax—"

"Eh, Dick, what then?" interjected his mother.

"He'll find us the seven and sixpence! P'raps I shall catch a fish in the river with a piece of money in its mouth," the little boy conjectured, thinking of the Bible story he had heard at school the week before.

"We must not decide to-night, child," said Mrs. Wilkins, heaving a deep sigh. "Poor thing, he shall sleep where he is till morning. Now, dear, we must go to bed."

"Must we?" The boy stooped over the exhausted animal and caressed its curly jacket. "Good-night, old man!" he said softly. "I'm glad we heard you whining. I'm glad we let you in."

CHAPTER II.

DICK RUNS AN ERRAND.

THERE was no small amount of excitement next morning when the three younger children became aware that a dog had gained admittance to the cottage on the previous evening. Cries of delight rang from their lips the instant they set eyes on him, and words of pity followed as they beheld his thin condition, sore neck, and bandaged paw. The twins, Willie and Joe, aged four, were inclined to be afraid of him at first; but after watching Dick and Molly stroke his rough coat, and receive kisses in return from his long pink tongue, they grew braver, and caressed him also.

"I wonder what he's called?" said bright-eyed, seven-year-old Molly.

She had addressed the new-comer by a dozen or more names owned by the various dogs with whom she was acquainted, but not one appeared to be the right one.

"It isn't Rough, or Ranger, or Spring, or anything I can think of. If we can't find out what it is, we shall have to think of something quite new," clapping her hands excitedly.

"But, my dear," broke in the widow at this point, "I really don't think we can keep him. The gentlefolks in the village will be sure to say we ain't justified in doing so; and a big dog is a great expense."

"O mother, we can't turn him to doors!" Dick, on the brink of tears, pleaded. "What would become of him, lame as he is? There are lots and lots of boys in the parish who'd stone him directly they saw he couldn't run away from them. Do let us keep him for a little while—at any rate, until his foot is healed."

Widow Wilkins shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed. At length she consented to keep the dog, assuring herself that before long some one would be sure to take a fancy to him and offer him a home.

"What shall we call our dog then?" asked Molly, with quite an important air of ownership.

"Supposing we call him Stranger," said Dick. "Don't you think that would do?"

"Yes! Yes!" his little sister and the twins agreed in a breath.

Within a week the dog learned to respond to his new name. Within a fortnight, he learned to take the children to school morning and afternoon, and fetch them when their lesson-hours were over. And though his injured paw caused him to limp a good deal at first, it soon got well. Then he was able to scamper and bound along as gracefully as if nothing had been amiss with it.

He was a sweet-tempered creature, and quickly made friends with the people in the village, who constantly gave him scraps to eat.

"Isn't his coat looking beautiful, mother?" Dick said one day to Mrs. Wilkins, as the much-dreaded winter drew near.

"Ah, it is, my dear!" was her reply. "It's because he's so well fed—that's the reason. Do you know, Dick, I almost envy that dog the bits folks throw to him, sometimes, when you children are on short rations. But there, I won't complain! P'raps I shall get some more washing or sewing work to do before long. I'm sure I don't mind how hard I slave, if only I can manage to get necessaries for you children."

"But, mother, you can't—you mustn't work harder than you do now!" cried the little boy, in tones strangely earnest for his years. "Cheer up, though! We won't go meeting trouble half-way," he went on, "'cos there'll be my shilling a week that I'm to get for cleaning boots at the rectory before long. I saw the rector's wife this morning, and promised to start work in a fortnight's time—that is, if you were willing."

"Willing! Why, yes, 'twill be a fine help to us, my dear," responded the widow more cheerfully. "You're right, Dick; we won't look upon the darkest side. We'll do our best, and face things as they come."

But although Dick and his hard-working mother tried their best to be brave during the weeks that followed, anxiety met them at every turn. The winter settled in, and work grew scarce. The children's appetites increased with the cold weather, and rent-days came round all too quickly.

"There's scarcely a handful of coal left in the out-house, Dick, and I can't spare money to buy more this week," said Mrs. Wilkins one cold morning to her little son, by now her right hand in almost every respect.

"That doesn't matter," cried courageous Dick; "I'll pick up a big bundle of sticks in the woods during dinner-time. And when I come out of school this afternoon, I'll get another lot."

And Dick Wilkins was as good as his word. He collected a huge bundle of fuel when he came out of school at twelve, and when lessons were over in the afternoon, he hastened to the woods again to get another lot together.

The weather was chill, indeed; but he paid no heed to the fact, so busy was he in selecting and collecting his sticks. He had barely succeeded in binding up his second load when, to his surprise, he turned and found a gentleman within a foot of him—one whom he at once recognized as the artist who lodged at Farmer Smerdon's.

"Don't be frightened, my boy," said the new-comer, seeing the child start and colour slightly. "You are doing no harm, I am sure, and it is a pity these branches should be left to rot in the woods when they would make such capital fires. But now to come at once to business! Will you run an errand for me? If so, I'll guard your fagot the while."

"Yes, sir," was Dick's quick reply.

A sensation of delight came over him as he thought of the coppers that he was in view of earning. He would take them home to his mother as a pleasant surprise. Oh, how pleased, how thankful she would be!

"Well, the fact is, I have left a small box of water-colour paints on the seat in the church porch," the artist lost no time in explaining; "and as I have walked a great many miles already this afternoon, I feel too tired to go back for it. On the other hand, if the village children should come upon my property, I fear they may do it damage."

"I'll fetch it straightway, sir. Please, is that all? Isn't there brushes as well?"

"No; I have my brushes with me. It is only the box I have forgotten."

"Right, sir; I'll be back again in no time."

And needing no further encouragement, Dick darted off as fast as the broken soles of his worn-out boots would carry him.

How he did his errand in so short a time, he never knew, but he reached the church in less than five minutes, though it was situated at a considerable distance from the woods, and possessing himself of the little paint-box, he fastened its cover securely that none of its contents might fall out, and sped back with all haste to the spot where the artist, true to his promise, was guarding his bundle of sticks.

"What! Returned already!" exclaimed the gratified gentleman, as Dick, hot and panting, made his reappearance. "You have been very quick. I should not have thought it possible for any one to do the distance in so short a time," taking the box from the boy's trembling hands and looking scrutinizingly into his eager countenance.

It was an honest, good-looking face, but withal pinched and thin. There was, too, a certain wistfulness in the child's blue eyes that hinted at poverty—perhaps privation. The artist was by no means rich, but a kindly impulse prompted him to reward the runner of his errand more generously than he had at first intended. "Here, lad," said he, "take this for having obliged me." And he put a piece of money into the boy's hand.

"Please, sir," Dick gazed with misty eyes at the coin—"did you mean to give me a shilling?"

"To be sure I did," was the reply; and the donor afterwards told himself that the expression of mingled wonderment and delight on the little face was worth three times the amount. "Take it and welcome, my lad," said he. "Now I will bid you good-day."

"Good-day, sir; and—and thank you ever so!" burst from Dick's quivering lips; after which he looked at the coin a second time, and murmured with delight, "Won't mother be surprised and glad! Fancy a shilling!—a whole shilling! Why, that's as much as I get at the rectory for cleaning boots in a week!"

And then, raising the piece of money to his lips, he actually kissed it, not for its own sake, as a miser might have done, but for the sake of the much-needed necessaries that he meant it to buy.

CHAPTER III.

DICK'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE BULLY.

"HULLO, Dick Wilkins, let me see what he has given you!"

The speaker was Squire Filmer's son, a well-known bully of about fifteen years of age. As his voice—always a dreaded one—fell on Dick's ears, the little boy thrust his precious shilling into his deepest pocket and turned pale.

"Here! Are you deaf?" continued Stephen, as his demand received no answer. "Let me see this instant what the gentleman has given you, or I'll make you turn out your pockets. Oh, it's no good!" he went on as the child looked anxiously around him. "There's no escape for you. And as for calling, you might shout yourself hoarse, and no one would hear. The artist is half a mile away by now; I watched him out of sight before I spoke to you."

"I wasn't going to call to him, sir. And I wasn't going to run away either. I ain't a coward," Dick found voice enough to declare.

And he spoke the truth; no thought of flight had entered his head for a moment. He had merely glanced around with the hope that Stranger might perchance have come, as he sometimes did, to seek him.

"Oh, you are not a coward, eh? Then that's all right. Now show me that piece of money!" persisted the bully, gripping Dick's shoulder so tightly that he could have shrieked with pain, had he been less brave than he was.

"Why should I show it to you, sir? 'Twas given to me. I earned it by running an errand for the artist gentleman, I did," said Dick.

"What of that? Let me see it, I tell you, or I'll give you something to remember me by. Ah!" as Dick's hand went reluctantly into his pocket. "I thought I should bring you to reason. So the gentleman gave you this, eh? A shilling! Well, it's a great deal too much money for a little boy like you to have. Think of it I—twelve pence, to be sucked away in candy!"

"No, sir. I mean to take it home to mother," little Dick explained, in his straightforward way. "We're terribly poor now that father's dead. And the children do eat such a lot this cold weather, and—and wear out so many boots."

"Come, you don't whine badly for a youngster! Poor folks are born grumblers, and a discontented set at best," stated Stephen. "Look here, Dick Wilkins, I may as well tell you at once that I am going to have that shilling of yours, whether you like it or no; and in return, I intend to give you this pretty little box that I picked up in the road yonder about half an hour ago. Exchange is no robbery, and you may think yourself lucky to have anything."

With this, he snatched Dick's shilling from his hand, and threw a small, curiously-carved match-box at the little wood-picker's feet.

"Oh, you shan't! You shan't!" cried poor Dick, losing all self-control, and throwing himself bodily upon the bigger boy. "'Tis mine," he contended, breaking into a passion of sobs and tears. "I earned it myself, and I mean to have it. Give it to me this minute, and take your match-box back. A thing like that's no good to me and mother. You're a coward and a thief."

"Now stop that noise," said Stephen. "It's no use your making a fuss; I want your shilling badly. I'm saving for new skates; and there's certain to be ice on the lake in Lord Bentford's grounds early in the new year."

"And I want to buy all sorts of things for mother and the children," sobbed the miserable and indignant Dick. "Listen to me, sir!" He ceased crying, took a step towards young Filmer, and looked fearlessly into his face. "If you don't give me back my money at once," he said, "I'll go straight to the farm and tell your father."

"So that's your little game, is it?" exclaimed the bully. "Well, it's a fortunate thing you mentioned it to me, because now I can tell you what the result of your doing it would be. I should make my mother promise me that she would never have Mrs. Wilkins to do washing or charing for her again."