Lad: A Dog. Albert Payson Terhune
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to her feet, in crazy zeal to protect her beloved playmate, she tottered forward three steps, and seized her mother by the skirt.
At the touch the woman looked down. Then her face went yellow-white; and the parasol clattered unnoticed to the ground.
For a long instant the mother stood thus; her eyes wide and glazed, her mouth open, her cheeks ashy—staring at the swaying child who clutched her dress for support and who was sobbing forth incoherent pleas for the dog.
The Master had broken into a run and into a flood of wordless profanity at sight of his dog’s punishment. Now he came to an abrupt halt and was glaring dazedly at the miracle before him.
The child had risen and had walked.
The child had walked!—she whose lower motive-centers, the wise doctors had declared, were hopelessly paralyzed—she who could never hope to twitch so much as a single toe or feel any sensation from the hips downward!
Small wonder that both guest and Master seemed to have caught, for the moment, some of the paralysis that so magically departed from the invalid!
And yet—as a corps of learned physicians later agreed—there was no miracle—no magic—about it. Baby’s was not the first, nor the thousandth case in pathologic history, in which paralyzed sensory powers had been restored to their normal functions by means of a shock.
The child had had no malformation, no accident, to injure the spine or the co-ordination between limbs and brain. A long illness had left her powerless. Country air and new interest in life had gradually built up wasted tissues. A shock had re-established communication between brain and lower body—a communication that had been suspended; not broken.
When, at last, there was room in any of the human minds for aught but blank wonder and gratitude, the joyously weeping mother was made to listen to the child’s story of the fight with the snake—a story corroborated by the Master’s find of the copperhead’s half-severed body.
“I’ll—I’ll get down on my knees to that heaven-sent dog,” sobbed the guest, “and apologize to him. Oh, I wish some of you would beat me as I beat him! I’d feel so much better! Where is he?”
The question brought no answer. Lad had vanished. Nor could eager callings and searchings bring him to view. The Master, returning from a shout-punctuated hunt through the forest, made Baby tell her story all over again. Then he nodded.
“I understand,” he said, feeling a ludicrously unmanly desire to cry. “I see how it was. The snake must have bitten him, at least once. Probably oftener, and he knew what that meant. Lad knows everything—knew everything, I mean. If he had known a little less he’d have been human. But—if he’d been human, he probably wouldn’t have thrown away his life for Baby.”
“Thrown away his life,” repeated the guest. “I—I don’t understand. Surely I didn’t strike him hard enough to——”
“No,” returned the Master, “but the snake did.”
“You mean, he has——?”
“I mean it is the nature of all animals to crawl away, alone, into the forest to die. They are more considerate than we. They try to cause no further trouble to those they have loved. Lad got his death from the copperhead’s fangs. He knew it. And while we were all taken up with the wonder of Baby’s cure, he quietly went away—to die.”
The Mistress got up hurriedly, and left the room. She loved the great dog, as she loved few humans. The guest dissolved into a flood of sloppy tears.
“And I beat him,” she wailed. “I beat him—horribly! And all the time he was dying from the poison he had saved my child from! Oh, I’ll never forgive myself for this, the longest day I live.”
“The longest day is a long day,” drily commented the Master. “And self-forgiveness is the easiest of all lessons to learn. After all, Lad was only a dog. That’s why he is dead.”
The Place’s atmosphere tingled with jubilation over the child’s cure. Her uncertain, but always successful, efforts at walking were an hourly delight.
But, through the general joy, the Mistress and the Master could not always keep their faces bright. Even the guest mourned frequently, and loudly, and eloquently the passing of Lad. And Baby was openly inconsolable at the loss of her chum.
At dawn on the morning of the fourth day, the Master let himself silently out of the house, for his usual before-breakfast cross-country tramp—a tramp on which, for years, Lad had always been his companion. Heavy-hearted, the Master prepared to set forth alone.
As he swung shut the veranda door behind him, Something arose stiffly from a porch rug—Something the Master looked at in a daze of unbelief.
It was a dog—yet no such dog as had ever before sullied the cleanness of The Place’s well-scoured veranda.
The animal’s body was lean to emaciation. The head was swollen—though, apparently, the swelling had begun to recede. The fur, from spine to toe, from nose to tail-tip, was one solid and shapeless mass of caked mud.
The Master sat down very suddenly on the veranda floor beside the dirt-encrusted brute, and caught it in his arms, sputtering disjointedly:
“Lad!—Laddie!—Old friend! You’re alive again! You’re—you’re—alive!”
Yes, Lad had known enough to creep away to the woods to die. But, thanks to the wolf-strain in his collie blood, he had also known how to do something far wiser than die.
Three days of self-burial, to the very nostrils, in the mysteriously healing ooze of the marshes, behind the forest, had done for him what such mud-baths have done for a million wild creatures. It had drawn out the viper-poison and had left him whole again—thin, shaky on the legs, slightly swollen of head—but whole.
“He’s—he’s awfully dirty, though! Isn’t he?” commented the guest, when an idiotic triumph-yell from the Master had summoned the whole family, in sketchy attire, to the veranda. “Awfully dirty and——”
“Yes,” curtly assented the Master, Lad’s head between his caressing hands. “‘Awfully dirty.’ That’s why he’s still alive.”
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