Chapter XII. In the Day of Battle
Now, this is the true tale of Lad’s last great adventure.
For more years than he could remember, Lad had been king. He had ruled at The Place, from boundary-fence to boundary-fence, from highway to Lake. He had had, as subjects, many a thoroughbred collie; and many a lesser animal and bird among the Little Folk of The Place. His rule of them all had been lofty and beneficent.
The other dogs at The Place recognized Lad’s rulership—recognized it without demur. It would no more have occurred to any of them, for example, to pass in or out through a doorway ahead of Lad than it would occur to a courtier to shoulder his way into the throne-room ahead of his sovereign. Nor would one of them intrude on the “cave” under the living-room piano which for more than a decade had been Lad’s favorite resting-place.
Great was Lad. And now he was old—very old.
He was thirteen—which is equivalent to the human age of seventy. His long, clean lines had become blurred with flesh. He was undeniably stout. When he ran fast, he rolled slightly in his stride. Nor could he run as rapidly or as long as of yore. While he was not wheezy or asthmatic, yet a brisk five-mile walk would make him strangely anxious for an hour’s rest.
He would not confess, even to himself, that age was beginning to hamper him so cruelly. And he sought to do all the things he had once done—if the Mistress or the Master were looking. But when he was alone, or with the other dogs, he spared himself every needless step. And he slept a great deal.
Withal, Lad’s was a hale old age. His spirit and his almost uncanny intelligence had not faltered. Save for the silvered muzzle—first outward sign of age in a dog—his face and head were as classically young as ever. So were the absurdly small forepaws—his one gross vanity—on which he spent hours of care each day, to keep them clean and snowy.
He would still dash out of the house as of old—with the wild trumpeting bark which he reserved as greeting to his two deities alone—when the Mistress or the Master returned home after an absence. He would still frisk excitedly around either of them at hint of a romp. But the exertion was an exertion. And despite Lad’s valiant efforts at youthfulness, everyone could see it was.
No longer did he lead the other dogs in their headlong rushes through the forest, in quest of rabbits. Since he could not now keep the pace, he let the others go on these breath-and-strength-taking excursions without him; and he contented himself with an occasional lone and stately walk through the woods where once he had led the run—strolling along in leisurely fashion, with the benign dignity of some plump and ruddy old squire inspecting his estate.
There had been many dogs at The Place during the thirteen years of Lad’s reign—dogs of all sorts and conditions, including Lad’s worshiped collie mate, the dainty gold-and-white “Lady.” But in this later day there were but three dogs beside himself.
One of them was Wolf, the only surviving son of Lad and Lady—a slender, powerful young collie, with some of his sire’s brain and much of his mother’s appealing grace—an ideal play-dog. Between Lad and Wolf there had always been a bond of warmest affection. Lad had trained this son of his and had taught him all he knew. He unbent from his lofty dignity, with Wolf, as with none of the others.
The second of the remaining dogs was Bruce (“Sunnybank Goldsmith”), tawny as Lad himself, descendant of eleven international champions and winner of many a ribbon and medal and cup. Bruce was—and is—flawless in physical perfection and in obedience and intelligence.
The third was Rex—a giant, a freak, a dog oddly out of place among a group of thoroughbreds. On his father’s side Rex was pure collie; on his mother’s, pure bull-terrier. That is an accidental blending of two breeds which cannot blend. He looked more like a fawn-colored Great Dane than anything else. He was short-haired, full two inches taller and ten pounds heavier than Lad, and had the bunch-muscled jaws of a killer.
There was not an outlander dog for two miles in either direction that Rex had not at one time or another met and vanquished. The bull-terrier strain, which blended so ill with collie blood, made its possessor a terrific fighter. He was swift as a deer, strong as a puma.
In many ways he was a lovable and affectionate pet; slavishly devoted to the Master and grievously jealous of the latter’s love for Lad. Rex was five years old—in his fullest prime—and, like the rest, he had ever taken Lad’s rulership for granted.
I have written at perhaps prosy length, introducing these characters of my war-story. The rest is action.