The instant Van heard the click of the gate he knew that the jig was up. He stood still, took in the situation, saw that there was no hope, and came straight to his mistress. Down at her feet he lay, ready for the inevitable whipping.
Oh, valiant little sinner! Why did you always make it so hard for those who had to punish you? One may whip a coward, and feel that he deserves it, but with two brave eyes looking up, not even begging for mercy, a white body that will quiver, but not cringe under the lash, with no sound of protest—how can one do it? Betsy needed all her own courage for the task.
Without a whimper the plucky little dog went back to the house on his chain, and care was redoubled to keep him at home. He showed no remorse. He had had his fun and taken his punishment. Chickens were decidedly the best sport yet, and his blood continued to leap at the sight of a feathered temptation.
Poor Betsy! She was at her wits’ end. What could she do? The neighbors would not stand for this sort of thing, and the day would come when some one would kill him, and no one could blame the doer of the deed. It could not matter to strangers what an adorable bit he was in his own home. Indoors he obeyed like an angel, out-of-doors he tossed his head and went his wicked ways.
Here was a problem that Betsy could not solve. The small sinner knew very well that he was doing wrong, and he knew that punishment followed, if he was caught. But he knew also that whippings do not last forever, and while the chase was on, he could not think of what was to follow—only a savage red triumph filled his brain. Nothing else mattered for the moment. Those days with the Hospital attendants were having their effect.
What should she do?
Once more Betsy tried him. She took him walking off the chain, but with the whip in her hand. It made no difference. He turned in at the first gate where his little nose said, “Chicken!” and this time he left four half-grown victims dead on the field, and got clean away, without the whip’s once touching him.
The owner of the chickens came over and displayed the results of Van’s foray to Dr. Johns. He paid for the chickens, but he looked very grave, and Betsy trembled.
Then the Johns family sat in judgment on the culprit. Something must be done. Punishment had no effect on that proud spirit. Somehow they must shame him. Dr. Johns had heard it said that if one hung the dead chicken on the collar of the dog, it would cure him of killing. At least the thing could be tried. With tears Betsy heard the verdict.
A red pullet was selected from the day’s kill, and tied to Van’s collar, like the albatross around the neck of the Ancient Mariner, and thus he was chained on the lawn near the house.