“I know it is my dog,” affirmed the Squire to Brett while he waited. Nothing on earth, except actual sight, would have convinced him that it was not his. “Those loose men play all sorts of cunning tricks. Dick Standish is full of them. I shouldn’t wonder but he has painted the dog; done his black marks over with brown paint—or green.”
“We’ve a dyer in this town, Squire,” related Brett; “he owns a little white curly dog, and he dyes him as an advertisement for his colours, and lets him run about on the pavement before the shop door. To-day the dog will be a delicate sky-blue, to-morrow a flaming scarlet; the next day he’ll be a beautiful orange, with a green tail. The neighbours’ dogs collect round and stand looking at him from a respectful distance, uncertain, I suppose, whether he is of the dog species, or not.”
I laughed.
“Passing the shop the other day, I saw the dog sitting on the door-step,” ran on Brett. “He was bright purple that time. An old lady, driving by in her chariot, caught sight of the dog and called to the coachman to pull up. There she sat, that old lady, entranced with amazement, staring through her eye-glass at what she took to be a phenomenon in nature. Five minutes, full, she stared, and couldn’t tear herself away. It is true, gentlemen, I assure you.”
Mr. Dick Standish was found, and brought before us. He looked rather more disreputable than usual, his old fustian coat out at elbows, a spotted red handkerchief twisted loosely round his neck. The dog was with him, and it was not ours. A large, fine dog, as already described, though much less handsome than Don, and out of condition, his curly coat a yellowish white, the marks on it of real tan colour, not painted.
Dick’s account, after vehemently protesting he had nothing to do with the poaching affair on Tuesday night, was never for a minute out of his bed—was this: The dog belonged to one of the stable-helpers at Leet Hall; but the man had determined to have the dog shot, not being satisfied with him of late, for the animal had turned odd and uncertain in his behaviour. Dick Standish heard of this. Understanding dogs thoroughly, and believing that this dog only wanted a certain course of treatment to put him right, Standish walked to Church Leet on Wednesday morning last from Church Dykely, and asked the man, Brazer, to give him the dog—he would take him and run all risks. Brazer refused at first; but, after a bit, agreed to let Standish keep the dog for a time. If he cured the dog, Brazer was to have him back again, paying Standish for his keep and care; but if not satisfied with the dog, Standish might keep him for good. Standish brought the dog away, and took him straight to Evesham, walking the whole way and getting there about nine o’clock in the evening. He was doctoring the dog well, and hoped to cure him.
Whether this tale was true or whether it wasn’t, none of us could contradict it. But there was an appearance of fear, of shuffling in the man’s manner, which seemed to indicate that something lay behind.
“It’s every word gospel, ain’t it, Rove, and no lie nowhere,” cried Standish, bending to pat the dog, while the corner of his eye was turned to regard the aspect of the company. “You’ve blown me up for many things before now, Squire Todhetley, but there’s no call, sir, to accuse me this time.”
“When did you hear about this dog of Brazer’s, and who told you of it?” inquired Tod, in his haughty way.
“’Twas Bill Rimmer, sir; he telled me on Tuesday night,” replied Dick. “And I said to him what a shame it was to talk of destroying that there fine dog, and that Brazer was a soft for thinking on’t. And I said, young Mr. Todhetley, that I’d be over at Church Leet first thing the next morning, to see if he’d give the dog to me.”