This brought him back to the stile in course of time; and he lifted a foot to go over when he was stopped by a faint cry. He paused just as he stood, one foot on the stile and one on the ground, listening breathlessly; for his educated ear knew the animal by its voice. Faint as the tones were they were unmistakable puppy tones. No kitten’s fretty “me-ouw,” no squirrel’s soulless “chir-chir,” was there; it was the noble voice of a puppy, though so faint and far that Billy could not at once detect its source. He listened until the cry came again, prolonged and piteous. It was a puppy in distress, a little baby dog in need of championship! who so ready in the wide world as he to espouse its cause! His knightly soul thrilled with pity as he ran eagerly about, led hither and thither by the repeated cries. He grew wild as he could not find the puppy behind a tree or tombstone or anywhere in the grass; and it was not until a second voice came to his aid that he ran in the right direction. The second voice was loud and angry, and provoked the first to shriller efforts. Puppies at war! Now Billy was doubly anxious to find them, for he could see the fun as well as support the under dog. He had decided by this time that they were near the fence which separated the graveyard from the barley field; and as he ran thither a third cry broke upon his ears, then a fourth, a fifth—till voices innumerable seemed to join the chorus.
“A dozen, as I’m alive!” said Billy; and by this time he had an opportunity to count them, though it was by no means easy to count all the big heads and little feet which he found struggling, pushing and climbing in the old tin pan between the fence and a walnut tree. He bent above the moving mass, and after various attempts learned that their number was seven. In regard to eyes, total blindness indicated extreme youth. And as to the cause of their complaint, it was evident that they had been abandoned in their ignorance and helplessness, and were in need of food.
Billy gazed into the pan with emotions of pride and compassion; the pride of a discoverer and possessor; the compassion of a heart always sensitive to canine grief, but moved to its depths by this spectacle of blind and orphaned infant woe. Seven little wails proceeding from seven hungry mouths, fourteen little paws groping and struggling towards escape from suffering whose cause was hardly comprehended—the sight might rouse a stouter heart than Billy’s.
“They’re a prize,” thought he, viewing the enormous heads and wee paws, critically. “They look like rare ones—Irish setters, perhaps. Bob would know. He’s up on those things.”
Bob might also make some helpful suggestions in regard to the puppies’ future; for Billy could not take them home; he could not leave them to starve, and he was far from willing to distribute among his friends the orphans whom he had rescued from untimely graves, and towards whom his heart was beating with such tender interest.
In his dilemma he left the puppies, to consult with Bob; and as he ran away, looked in vain for the mother dog.
“It would never do to let them starve,” said Bob; “but we must give the mother a fair chance. If she isn’t back by seven we can conclude they’re abandoned, and they shall have a home in my barn, for the present.”
Having met at seven, Bob and Billy hastened to the graveyard. No mother dog could be seen as they approached the stile, and a chorus of loud wails informed them that she had not returned. They were soon kneeling by the pan, criticising forms and faces; at the same time observing with deepest pity how the little mouths told their misery and the weary paws strove to escape from it.
BILLY EXPERIENCES UNSPEAKABLE HAPPINESS.