Chet laughed a little, rubbed Job’s head, said slowly: “I hate to see the old dog get old, that’s all.”
“Sho,” said Mary, “he’s just beginning to enjoy living. Don’t have to work any more.”
In the end she did bring some measure of comfort to Chet. And it was she who christened Job anew. He and Chet came down one evening, stopped on their way for the mail, and she greeted Chet and to the dog said, “Hello, Old Tantrybogus.”
Chet looked at her, asked what she meant.
“Nothing,” Mary told him. “He just looks like an old tantrybogus, that’s all.”
“What is a tantrybogus?” Chet asked. “I don’t believe there’s any such thing.”
“Well, if there was he’d look like one,” said Mary.
The name took hold. Mary always used it; Chet himself took it up. By the time Job was twelve years old he was seldom called anything else.
Chet had expected that Mac, the young dog, would prove a companion for Job, but at first it seemed he would be disappointed. To begin with, Job was jealous; he sulked when Chet paid Mac attention and was a scornful spectator at Mac’s training sessions. This early jealousy came to a head about the time Mac got his full stature—in a fight over a field mouse. It happened in the orchard, where Chet was piling hay round his trees. Mac dug the mouse out of the grass, Old Tantrybogus stole it and Mac went for him.
Tantry was old, but strength was still in him, and some measure of craft. He got a neck hold and it is probable he would have killed Mac then and there if Chet had not interfered. As it was, Chet broke the hold, punished both dogs and chained them up for days till by every language a dog can muster they promised him to behave themselves. They never fought again. Mac had for Tantry a deep respect; Job had for Mac—having established his ascendancy—a mild and elderly affection.