Part 8 (1/2)

”They're all jealous,” said Tom, ”but they wouldn't touch 'er. A male dog scarcely ever attacks a female.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: White English Bull Terrier]

Molly proved to be a sweet, gentle creature, and allowed the boys to pat and stroke her hard little head.

”She's the genooine harticle,” said Tom. ”See the straight legs of 'er an' the square muzzle. She'll win something, or I'm no judge.”

”She's a little smaller than some of them, isn't she?” asked Harry.

”Yes, but she's just about the right size for showing,” said Tom.

”Thirty-seven she weighs. I'm partial to the bigger dogs, myself, but the judges generally favor a smaller dog if he's got the points.

Molly's certainly got the points.”

Much to the edification of the boys, Tom went on to describe the standard points of the Airedale, ill.u.s.trating with several of the dogs, all of whom seemed to be very fond of the kennelman. Then he took them in to see the bull terriers.

”'Ere's a different kind of dog entirely,” he said. ”As good a fighter and watchdog as the Hairedale, but not useful in so many ways. It's an older breed than the Hairedale. I can remember when the bull terrier was a heavier dog, and brindles were just as good as whites, but now they want only this kind in the shows, with a long skull and pure white. Eyes small and shaped like almonds, and set wide apart. That's the kind. The ears have to be cropped in this country to win prizes.

Beastly custom. They don't do it in Hengland any more. I'm glad they let the Hairedales' ears alone.”

For some time Tom Poultice discoursed learnedly on these two breeds and answered numerous questions.

”What-ho,” he exclaimed suddenly. ”'Ere's Mr. 'Artshorn coming. Get 'im to tell you about dogs. 'E knows a thing or two 'imself.”

A well-dressed gentleman in a gray overcoat and hat, with a gray pointed beard, and carrying a cane, appeared around the end of the kennel house. The boys appeared a little ill at ease.

”Don't be scared of 'im,” said Tom. ”'E likes boys.”

”Well, Tom,” said Mr. Hartshorn, stopping now and then to poke his stick through the fence at the dogs that came yelping down their runs to greet him, ”how's Molly?”

”Mighty fine, sir,” said Tom; ”mighty fine.”

”Some of your friends?” he inquired, indicating the boys.

”Yes, sir,” said Tom. ”This is Harry Barton, sir, from Boytown, and these--what did you say your names were?”

”Ernest and Jack Whipple,” said Ernest.

”Ah, yes,” said Mr. Hartshorn, just as though he had been reading about these boys in the paper. ”Glad to meet you, I'm sure. Came up to have a look at the finest dogs in Connecticut, I suppose.”

He had a pleasant, friendly face, and though the boys were a little awed by his imposing appearance and courtly manner, they soon lost their shyness and found themselves asking him many questions about dogs.

”Come up to the house,” said he at length. ”I can explain things better up there, where I have some pictures.”

Tom went back to his work and the boys, bidding him good-by, followed Mr. Hartshorn up to the big house. He took them into a room that he said was his den. There was a big desk in it, all littered up with papers, and well filled bookcases around the room.

”Are all these books about dogs?” inquired Harry.

”Well, a good many of them are,” said Mr. Hartshorn. ”I have about every book on dogs that has been printed, I expect.”

On the walls above the bookcases were photographs and colored pictures of dogs and horses in frames, and at one side of the room was a long leather sofa. Mr. Hartshorn seated himself at his desk and began rummaging in a drawer full of photographs, while he told the boys to be seated on the sofa.

”Now, then,” he said when they were all settled, ”you were asking me about the different kinds of terriers, and I guess I've got pictures of good specimens of about every kind. How many kinds of standard breeds of terriers do you suppose there are?”