On the last secret hunt in which the dog-friends engaged, Wallace was so enfeebled by age that the exertion exhausted the little strength left to him, and he was unable to return home. Dick had to face the wrath of his master alone, while he was unable to account for his missing comrade.
Happily the mastiff reached a neighbouring farm-house, where he was recognised—for he was a well-known and valued dog—and where he was hospitably entertained, till word could be sent to his master, who despatched a cart for the disabled sportsman. But fancy the mortification of poor Wallace, once so invulnerable at every point, so renowned a warrior and hunter, to be brought home like a dead donkey, stretched at the bottom of a cart!
Wallace survived his last hunt some time, but the evidence of the decay of his powers became always more unmistakeable. He was a mere bony wreck of what he had been. He subsisted principally on great “diets” of milk freely lavished on him to prolong his days. At last he fell into a habit of stealing away and secreting himself in some solitary spot of the garden or grounds, an ominous inclination which superstitious servants called “looking for his grave,” and that was in reality prompted by the curious pathetic instinct which causes every stricken animal to draw away from the herd, and hide itself from its kind.
But Wallace was not to die apart from human hands and the friends he had loved. No one saw him die; but a servant, preparing to sweep out the dining-room early one morning, found the old dog stretched stark and cold on his master’s sofa—“like a Christian,” as she protested, half awed, half scandalised. And what gave the last touch to the situation was that little lively Dick—always fond of establishing himself by his friend—was discovered lying trembling, with that consciousness of death of which a dog is supposed to be unconscious, behind Wallace, that he had not dared to disturb—the first time Wallace had frightened Dick.
I think Wallace’s master, by his own choice, helped to dig the dog’s grave; I know that the spot selected was one which had been long chosen for his last resting-place. Care was taken that Dick should not know the place, or be tempted to disturb it, when it was little thought that the terrier would soon lie by his comrade’s side. Not that Dick died of his mourning; I never heard of a dog pining to death for a fellow-dog—only for his master. I am not even aware that Dick gave great signs of missing his companion after the first few days, for dogs will be dogs after all; and undoubtedly Dick recovered the full flow of his constitutionally high spirits within a short period.
