Part 18 (1/2)

”I'll handle this covey for Mr. Swygert,” said La.r.s.en to the judges, his voice smooth and plausible, on his face a smile.

And thus it happened that Comet faced his supreme ordeal without the steadying voice of his G.o.d. He only knew that ahead of him were birds, and that behind him a man was coming through the straw, and that behind the man a crowd of people on horseback were watching him. He had become used to that but when, out of the corner of his eye he saw the face of the advancing man, his soul began to tremble.

”Call your dog in, Mr. La.r.s.en,” directed the judge. ”Make him backstand.”

Only a moment was lost while Peerless, a young dog himself, came running in and at a command from La.r.s.en stopped in his tracks behind Comet, and pointed. La.r.s.en's dogs always obeyed, quickly, mechanically.

Without ever gaining their confidence, La.r.s.en had a way of turning them into finished field-trial dogs. They obeyed because they were afraid not to.

According to the rules the man handling the dog has to shoot as the birds rise. This is done in order to test the dog's steadiness when a gun is fired over him. No specification is made as to the size of the shotgun to be used. Usually, however, small-gauge guns are carried. The one in La.r.s.en's hands was a twelve-gauge, and consequently large.

All morning he had been using it over his own dog. n.o.body had paid any attention to it, because he shot smokeless powder. But now, as he advanced, he reached into the left-hand pocket of his hunting coat, where six sh.e.l.ls rattled as he hurried along. Two of these he took out and rammed into the barrels.

As for Comet, still standing rigid, statuesque, he heard, as has been said, the brush of steps through the straw, glimpsed a face, and trembled. But only for a moment. Then he steadied, head high, tail straight out. The birds rose with a whirr--and then was repeated that horror of his youth. Above his ears, ears that would always be tender, broke a great roar. Either because of his excitement, or because of a sudden wave of revenge, or of a determination to make sure of the dog's flight, La.r.s.en had pulled both triggers at once. The combined report shattered through the dog's ear drums, it s.h.i.+vered through his nerves, he sank in agony into the straw.

Then the old impulse to flee was upon him, and he sprang to his feet, and looked about wildly. But from somewhere in that crowd behind him came to his tingling ears a voice--clear, ringing, deep, the voice of a woman--a woman he knew--pleading as his master used to plead, calling on him not to run but to stand.

”Steady,” it said. ”Steady, Comet!”

It called him to himself, it soothed him, it calmed him, and he turned and looked toward the crowd. With the roar of the shotgun the usual order observed in field trials was broken up. All rules seemed to have been suspended. Ordinarily, no one belonging to ”the field” is allowed to speak to a dog. Yet the girl had spoken to him. Ordinarily, the spectators must remain in the rear of the judges. Yet one of the judges had himself wheeled his horse about and was galloping off, and Marian Devant had pushed through the crowd and was riding toward the bewildered dog.

He stood staunch where he was, though in his ears was still a throbbing pain, and though all about him was this growing confusion he could not understand. The man he feared was running across the field yonder, in the direction taken by the judge. He was blowing his whistle as he ran.

Through the crowd, his face terrible to see, his own master was coming.

Both the old man and the girl had dismounted now and were running toward him.

”I heard,” old Swygert was saying to her. ”I heard it! I might 'a'

known! I might 'a' known!”

”He stood,” she panted, ”like a rock--oh, the brave, beautiful thing!”

”Where is that----” Swygert suddenly checked himself and looked around.

A man in the crowd (they had all gathered about now) laughed.

”He's gone after his dog,” he said. ”Peerless has run away!”

VII

THE CRISIS IN 25

He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the dear G.o.d who loveth us He made and loveth all.

Something was wrong with little Tommy Earle. Consequently, something was wrong with the whole Earle plantation. Frank, the Earle dog--a stately Irish setter, rich in the wisdom and devotion of the n.o.bly bred bird dog--Frank had sensed it yesterday afternoon. The boy had not come out of the house until long after dinner. Then he had strolled off forlornly and in silence toward the garage. His frowsy head had been bowed as if he were studying his own little shadow at his feet. His wide blue eyes--they were exactly on a level with the dog's anxiously inquiring ones--had had in them a suggestion of pain and helplessness, of dependence on things bigger than himself.

He had made no outcry; Tommy was something of a stoic. In fact, he had said nothing at all. But that look had gone straight to the dog's heart. Since hunting season was over he had been self-appointed guardian of this boy. The two had come to understand one another as boys and dogs understand. There was no need of words now. Frank understood; something hurt the boy inside.

The young mother had run out, her face anxious, and had taken Tommy in out of the sun. He had not seemed to mind going in, and that would have been enough of itself. Frank had followed them up on the porch; the screen door had slammed in his face. He had strolled off, tail depressed; he had lain down in the shade of the front-walk hedge, his ears p.r.i.c.ked toward the big white house with the columned porch. It had remained ominously silent inside. The boy had not come out again. The long June afternoon had pa.s.sed brooding and vacant, as if it were Sunday and all the people on the plantation had gone to church.

Now another morning was here. But instead of the boy running out to greet it a man in a car was driving up the heavy shaded avenue of oaks that led from the big road. Frank met him as he got out of his car, looked up anxiously into his spectacled face, whiffed the strange-smelling satchel he carried, escorted him gravely up the steps.