The Dogs of Boytown

by Walter A. Dyer

Tom picked Remus up in his strong arms, and the little procession made its way up to the house. Bringing up the rear came Romulus, a subdued dog these last anxious days. His big eyes questioned the faces of his human friends for the meaning of it all. He could not speak, but no one showed a more genuine sympathy.

Never before had Romulus attempted to enter the house. Now he seemed to understand that the ban had been lifted. He followed quietly in through the door, and no one said him nay.

But I am happy to say that this story is not going to end sadly. I don't believe I could tell it if it did. Dr. Runkle stayed at Willowdale for three days, and each day he came down to attend his patient. At last his skill and knowledge and the constant careful nursing won the battle, and gradually Remus fought his way back to health. His splendid constitution and stout heart stood him in good stead, and once the crisis was passed, recovery was rapid and certain.

And that is really the end of the story, though by no means the end of Romulus and Remus. They were destined to live to a ripe old age, much honored in Boytown, and to win many triumphs on field and bench. I need not tell you how happy Jack Whipple was to have his beloved dog restored to health and strength again. The rest of the family were hardly less so, and all Boytown rejoiced. I will only tell what a few of the people said and did, because Remus, you will agree, deserved all the honors and all the love that could be heaped upon him.

The first day that Jack was allowed to take Remus out into the sunshine for a little airing, there was one who watched them from the kitchen window. It was Irish Delia, who had objected so strenuously when the puppies had first been brought into her kitchen. When Jack, smiling happily, brought the dog in again, and Remus, whose legs were still a bit unsteady, walked over to his dish for a drink of water, Delia could restrain herself no longer. She flopped down on her knees beside him, and putting her arms about him, sobbed unrestrainedly into his soft coat.

"Ach, Remus, dear," she cried, "ye niver knew it, but I loved ye like me own brother."

And what did Tom Poultice say after the danger was over? He placed a kindly hand on Jack's shoulder and said, "I read a book once called 'The Mill on the Floss,' and there was a chap in it named Bob Jakin—just a hordinary chap like me. One day 'e says to a lady, 'e says, 'Hev a dog, Miss. They're better friends nor any Christian.' I've always thought 'e was right, Jacky, and I think so now more than ever."

Mr. Hartshorn didn't say much. He was not the demonstrative kind, but everyone knew what he thought. One day he told the boys that he had just received a letter from a cousin of his in the West who was a sheep man.

"He hates dogs," said Mr. Hartshorn, "worse than coyotes. He always makes fun of my sentimentality, as he calls it, and can't say too much against an animal that can furnish neither eggs, milk, wool, nor meat. He calls the dog a useless creature. I sat down and wrote him what Remus did on Hulse's Pond, and asked him if he had ever heard of a sheep that had saved a human life. I guess that will hold him for awhile."

Sam Bumpus didn't say much, either. He just stroked Remus's head and patted his flank, and then remarked, "I've sometimes thought life was a pretty tough proposition, but I reckon so long as there's boys an' dogs in the world, we can manage to stagger along an' bear up under it."