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Title: Dick's retriever
Author: E. M. Stooke
Release date: November 13, 2023 [eBook #72111]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Thomas Nelson and Sons, Limited, 1921
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DICK'S RETRIEVER ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "By the time that Mrs. Wilkins put in her appearance,
the table-cloth was laid."]
DICK'S RETRIEVER
BY
E. M. STOOKE
Author of "Tim and Jim," "A Reformatory Boy,"
&c. &c.
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.
1921
CONTENTS.
I. THE ARRIVAL
II. DICK RUNS AN ERRAND
III. DICK'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE BULLY
IV. TEN SHILLINGS REWARD
V. DICK'S INTERVIEW WITH THE COLONEL
VI. HARD TIMES
VII. A GALLANT RESCUE
VIII. STRANGER'S MISSION FULFILLED
DICK'S RETRIEVER.
CHAPTER I.
THE ARRIVAL.
IT was a wild, dark night. The rain was coming down in torrents, the
wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Creak! Creak! How the branches of the
elm trees groaned as they swayed to and fro outside the tiny cottage
where Widow Wilkins and her eldest child—a delicate looking boy of
twelve—crouched over a dying fire!
"Hark, mother, to the wind! Isn't it terrible?" little Dick exclaimed
in awe-stricken tones.
"Yes," said the widow, "it's a dreadful night. I shudder to think of
the poor sailors out at sea. Depend on it, there'll be lots of wrecks
before morning, unless the wind goes down, and that pretty soon."
With this, she turned her head towards the door, beneath which she had
stuffed some old matting to keep out the draught.
"I thought," she went on after a few minutes' pause, "I heard a cry,
but suppose it was only my fancy. One thing's certain, it can't be from
upstairs, 'cos the children are asleep."
"P'raps it's the wind in the chimney or in the branches of the trees
you hear, mother," said the little boy. "It makes all kinds of sounds
when there's a gale on like this. Listen! I heard a cry then—sure
enough I did! 'Twas like the whine of a dog, only very low and weak.
What do you say—shall we open the door and look? Something is going
'scratch, scratch,' now," he cried, jumping excitedly to his feet.
"It's late to open the door, Dick," protested his mother nervously.
"Who's to tell that it isn't some drunken body playing a trick upon us.
Mind we've no near neighbours to shout to if we should want help ever
so bad!"
"I know, I know; but I ain't a bit afraid. And we couldn't go to bed
without seeing what was outside. If it isn't a dog, why, then, maybe
it's a child."
The widow looked disturbed. She rose from her chair, raked the dying
embers together in the fireplace, and lit the candle; for she and Dick
had been sitting the last half-hour by firelight—they always did so
to save lamp oil after she had put away her sewing at nine o'clock on
winter evenings.
"Here, mother, you stand back whilst I undo the door," directed Dick.
Mrs. Wilkins, not without some slight misgivings, did as she was
bid. Meanwhile Dick went to the door—his small face pale with
anticipation—and withdrew the heavy bolts. This done, he lifted the
latch, and as a result a gust of storm-wind swept into the cottage
kitchen, and a crouching, shivering retriever entered.
"Oh!" cried the child. "What a poor wretched thing! See, mother," he
continued, as he shut the door and followed the dog into the centre of
the room, "he's soaked to the skin, and there's a rope round his neck
with a big stone at the end of it! I know; I see what that means. Some
one has been trying to drown him in the river yonder."
"I reckon your guess isn't far out, Dick," agreed the widow. "Here, you
poor creature, let me look at you. Why, you're cold as ice, and one of
your paws is bleeding!"
Then, turning her kind face to her little son, who stood looking down
on their visitor with pitying eyes, she went on,—
"Throw a few kindling sticks on those embers, child; and take the
bellows and blow the fire into a blaze. 'Tisn't often you and I get a
chance of doing good, 'cos we're so poor; but we'll do the best we can
for this miserable creature, though he is but a dog."
"He's a real retriever, I believe," said the enthusiastic little boy,
hastily placing some sticks crosswise on the dying coals, and reaching
forward for the bellows. "See how affectionately he's licking my hand,
mother! Why, what are you going to do to him with that great cloth
you've got?"
"Dry him a bit, to be sure," was the woman's answer. And straightway
she knelt down and began to rub the animal's rain-sodden coat. "We
shall never get him warm as he is," she continued, "for he's so wet
the water is running off him into pools on the floor. Try and take
off the rope, Dick. And when you've done it, get me a rag and a piece
of string, and I'll bandage up his paw—it's very sore; I find he can
hardly bear me to touch it."
Dick wanted no second bidding. Setting to work with nimble fingers,
he soon succeeded in untying the knotted rope that had in some places
rubbed the dog's neck into wounds. This done, he went to a cupboard
and took from it a ragged but clean apron of his sister's, which Mrs.
Wilkins split into strips and bound round the retriever's injured foot.
Having at length dried the dog to their satisfaction, they coaxed him
on to an old sack that they had spread in front of the hearth; and
dumb though he was, the intelligent creature raised his brown eyes to
their faces as if to thank them for their mercy and compassion. Little
Dick brought some scraps left over from the children's supper and laid
them before the animal; he also offered him some warm milk and water
to drink. But so great was the dog's exhaustion that he made no effort
to drink or eat; instead, he lay back with a sigh of contentment,
and extended his cramped limbs towards the comforting blaze. In this
position, he was soon asleep.
"Mother," said Dick in a low whisper, after several minutes' silence,
"he's uncommon pretty, now he's dry. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, I do," assented Mrs. Wilkins. "No one could truthfully call him
ugly with such a fine curly coat as he's got. And he seems gentle too,"
she added. "I can't think how folks can find it in their hearts to be
cruel to a dumb thing like him."
The mother and her son sat still for a time, silently admiring the
beautiful animal.
"Mother," said Dick, breaking the silence, "don't you wish we could
keep him—for always, I mean? 'Twould be proper fun to see him swim in
the river to fetch out sticks."
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head.
"Mother!" Dick's voice was low and coaxing; he slipped on to the floor
and laid his head upon his mother's knee. "Do let us keep this poor dog
that's come to our door to-night. He shall have half of my dinner every
day, and a part of my supper too. O mother, do say yes!"
"Maybe he'll stray away when to-morrow comes."
"Yes, yes; but if he doesn't?"
"Well, Dick, it's not to be thought of—our keeping him—I'm afraid. You
see, a big dog eats a lot; more than you could spare him from your
meals every day, that's certain. Then, again, there'd be his tax; I
couldn't afford to pay it. But," hopefully, "p'raps he'll be claimed."
The boy shook his head, and pointed at the rope.
"Whoever tried to drown him doesn't want him back," he said wisely. "Do
you know what I believe, mother?"
"No, Dick. How should I know?"
"Well, I believe God means us to keep him, and I'll tell you what makes
me think so. God knows what happens everywhere. The parson said so
last Sunday. He told us that there wasn't anything too small or poor
to escape God's notice. So He must know that this poor dog has come
whining to our door." Then, positively, "Of course He does!"
Mrs. Wilkins was silent.
Dick earnestly continued,—
"'Tisn't as if God ever made mistakes. He knows we're poor folks, and
that at times we can scarcely find food for ourselves. Depend upon it,
He won't let us lose by giving this dear old fellow a home. And when
the time comes for paying his tax—"
"Eh, Dick, what then?" interjected his mother.
"He'll find us the seven and sixpence! P'raps I shall catch a fish
in the river with a piece of money in its mouth," the little boy
conjectured, thinking of the Bible story he had heard at school the
week before.
"We must not decide to-night, child," said Mrs. Wilkins, heaving a deep
sigh. "Poor thing, he shall sleep where he is till morning. Now, dear,
we must go to bed."
"Must we?" The boy stooped over the exhausted animal and caressed its
curly jacket. "Good-night, old man!" he said softly. "I'm glad we heard
you whining. I'm glad we let you in."
CHAPTER II.
DICK RUNS AN ERRAND.
THERE was no small amount of excitement next morning when the three
younger children became aware that a dog had gained admittance to the
cottage on the previous evening. Cries of delight rang from their lips
the instant they set eyes on him, and words of pity followed as they
beheld his thin condition, sore neck, and bandaged paw. The twins,
Willie and Joe, aged four, were inclined to be afraid of him at first;
but after watching Dick and Molly stroke his rough coat, and receive
kisses in return from his long pink tongue, they grew braver, and
caressed him also.
"I wonder what he's called?" said bright-eyed, seven-year-old Molly.
She had addressed the new-comer by a dozen or more names owned by the
various dogs with whom she was acquainted, but not one appeared to be
the right one.
"It isn't Rough, or Ranger, or Spring, or anything I can think of. If
we can't find out what it is, we shall have to think of something quite
new," clapping her hands excitedly.
"But, my dear," broke in the widow at this point, "I really don't think
we can keep him. The gentlefolks in the village will be sure to say we
ain't justified in doing so; and a big dog is a great expense."
"O mother, we can't turn him to doors!" Dick, on the brink of tears,
pleaded. "What would become of him, lame as he is? There are lots
and lots of boys in the parish who'd stone him directly they saw he
couldn't run away from them. Do let us keep him for a little while—at
any rate, until his foot is healed."
Widow Wilkins shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed. At length she
consented to keep the dog, assuring herself that before long some one
would be sure to take a fancy to him and offer him a home.
"What shall we call our dog then?" asked Molly, with quite an important
air of ownership.
"Supposing we call him Stranger," said Dick. "Don't you think that
would do?"
"Yes! Yes!" his little sister and the twins agreed in a breath.
Within a week the dog learned to respond to his new name. Within a
fortnight, he learned to take the children to school morning and
afternoon, and fetch them when their lesson-hours were over. And though
his injured paw caused him to limp a good deal at first, it soon got
well. Then he was able to scamper and bound along as gracefully as if
nothing had been amiss with it.
He was a sweet-tempered creature, and quickly made friends with the
people in the village, who constantly gave him scraps to eat.
"Isn't his coat looking beautiful, mother?" Dick said one day to Mrs.
Wilkins, as the much-dreaded winter drew near.
"Ah, it is, my dear!" was her reply. "It's because he's so well
fed—that's the reason. Do you know, Dick, I almost envy that dog the
bits folks throw to him, sometimes, when you children are on short
rations. But there, I won't complain! P'raps I shall get some more
washing or sewing work to do before long. I'm sure I don't mind how
hard I slave, if only I can manage to get necessaries for you children."
"But, mother, you can't—you mustn't work harder than you do now!"
cried the little boy, in tones strangely earnest for his years. "Cheer
up, though! We won't go meeting trouble half-way," he went on, "'cos
there'll be my shilling a week that I'm to get for cleaning boots at
the rectory before long. I saw the rector's wife this morning, and
promised to start work in a fortnight's time—that is, if you were
willing."
"Willing! Why, yes, 'twill be a fine help to us, my dear," responded
the widow more cheerfully. "You're right, Dick; we won't look upon the
darkest side. We'll do our best, and face things as they come."
But although Dick and his hard-working mother tried their best to be
brave during the weeks that followed, anxiety met them at every turn.
The winter settled in, and work grew scarce. The children's appetites
increased with the cold weather, and rent-days came round all too
quickly.
"There's scarcely a handful of coal left in the out-house, Dick, and
I can't spare money to buy more this week," said Mrs. Wilkins one
cold morning to her little son, by now her right hand in almost every
respect.
"That doesn't matter," cried courageous Dick; "I'll pick up a big
bundle of sticks in the woods during dinner-time. And when I come out
of school this afternoon, I'll get another lot."
And Dick Wilkins was as good as his word. He collected a huge bundle of
fuel when he came out of school at twelve, and when lessons were over
in the afternoon, he hastened to the woods again to get another lot
together.
The weather was chill, indeed; but he paid no heed to the fact, so busy
was he in selecting and collecting his sticks. He had barely succeeded
in binding up his second load when, to his surprise, he turned and
found a gentleman within a foot of him—one whom he at once recognized
as the artist who lodged at Farmer Smerdon's.
"Don't be frightened, my boy," said the new-comer, seeing the child
start and colour slightly. "You are doing no harm, I am sure, and it
is a pity these branches should be left to rot in the woods when they
would make such capital fires. But now to come at once to business!
Will you run an errand for me? If so, I'll guard your fagot the while."
"Yes, sir," was Dick's quick reply.
A sensation of delight came over him as he thought of the coppers that
he was in view of earning. He would take them home to his mother as a
pleasant surprise. Oh, how pleased, how thankful she would be!
"Well, the fact is, I have left a small box of water-colour paints on
the seat in the church porch," the artist lost no time in explaining;
"and as I have walked a great many miles already this afternoon, I feel
too tired to go back for it. On the other hand, if the village children
should come upon my property, I fear they may do it damage."
"I'll fetch it straightway, sir. Please, is that all? Isn't there
brushes as well?"
"No; I have my brushes with me. It is only the box I have forgotten."
"Right, sir; I'll be back again in no time."
And needing no further encouragement, Dick darted off as fast as the
broken soles of his worn-out boots would carry him.
How he did his errand in so short a time, he never knew, but he
reached the church in less than five minutes, though it was situated
at a considerable distance from the woods, and possessing himself of
the little paint-box, he fastened its cover securely that none of its
contents might fall out, and sped back with all haste to the spot where
the artist, true to his promise, was guarding his bundle of sticks.
"What! Returned already!" exclaimed the gratified gentleman, as Dick,
hot and panting, made his reappearance. "You have been very quick. I
should not have thought it possible for any one to do the distance in
so short a time," taking the box from the boy's trembling hands and
looking scrutinizingly into his eager countenance.
It was an honest, good-looking face, but withal pinched and thin. There
was, too, a certain wistfulness in the child's blue eyes that hinted
at poverty—perhaps privation. The artist was by no means rich, but a
kindly impulse prompted him to reward the runner of his errand more
generously than he had at first intended. "Here, lad," said he, "take
this for having obliged me." And he put a piece of money into the boy's
hand.
"Please, sir," Dick gazed with misty eyes at the coin—"did you mean to
give me a shilling?"
"To be sure I did," was the reply; and the donor afterwards told
himself that the expression of mingled wonderment and delight on the
little face was worth three times the amount. "Take it and welcome, my
lad," said he. "Now I will bid you good-day."
"Good-day, sir; and—and thank you ever so!" burst from Dick's quivering
lips; after which he looked at the coin a second time, and murmured
with delight, "Won't mother be surprised and glad! Fancy a shilling!—a
whole shilling! Why, that's as much as I get at the rectory for
cleaning boots in a week!"
And then, raising the piece of money to his lips, he actually kissed
it, not for its own sake, as a miser might have done, but for the sake
of the much-needed necessaries that he meant it to buy.
CHAPTER III.
DICK'S ENCOUNTER WITH THE BULLY.
"HULLO, Dick Wilkins, let me see what he has given you!"
The speaker was Squire Filmer's son, a well-known bully of about
fifteen years of age. As his voice—always a dreaded one—fell on Dick's
ears, the little boy thrust his precious shilling into his deepest
pocket and turned pale.
"Here! Are you deaf?" continued Stephen, as his demand received no
answer. "Let me see this instant what the gentleman has given you, or
I'll make you turn out your pockets. Oh, it's no good!" he went on as
the child looked anxiously around him. "There's no escape for you.
And as for calling, you might shout yourself hoarse, and no one would
hear. The artist is half a mile away by now; I watched him out of sight
before I spoke to you."
"I wasn't going to call to him, sir. And I wasn't going to run away
either. I ain't a coward," Dick found voice enough to declare.
And he spoke the truth; no thought of flight had entered his head for a
moment. He had merely glanced around with the hope that Stranger might
perchance have come, as he sometimes did, to seek him.
"Oh, you are not a coward, eh? Then that's all right. Now show me that
piece of money!" persisted the bully, gripping Dick's shoulder so
tightly that he could have shrieked with pain, had he been less brave
than he was.
"Why should I show it to you, sir? 'Twas given to me. I earned it by
running an errand for the artist gentleman, I did," said Dick.
"What of that? Let me see it, I tell you, or I'll give you something to
remember me by. Ah!" as Dick's hand went reluctantly into his pocket.
"I thought I should bring you to reason. So the gentleman gave you
this, eh? A shilling! Well, it's a great deal too much money for a
little boy like you to have. Think of it I—twelve pence, to be sucked
away in candy!"
"No, sir. I mean to take it home to mother," little Dick explained, in
his straightforward way. "We're terribly poor now that father's dead.
And the children do eat such a lot this cold weather, and—and wear out
so many boots."
"Come, you don't whine badly for a youngster! Poor folks are born
grumblers, and a discontented set at best," stated Stephen. "Look here,
Dick Wilkins, I may as well tell you at once that I am going to have
that shilling of yours, whether you like it or no; and in return, I
intend to give you this pretty little box that I picked up in the road
yonder about half an hour ago. Exchange is no robbery, and you may
think yourself lucky to have anything."
With this, he snatched Dick's shilling from his hand, and threw a
small, curiously-carved match-box at the little wood-picker's feet.
"Oh, you shan't! You shan't!" cried poor Dick, losing all self-control,
and throwing himself bodily upon the bigger boy. "'Tis mine," he
contended, breaking into a passion of sobs and tears. "I earned it
myself, and I mean to have it. Give it to me this minute, and take your
match-box back. A thing like that's no good to me and mother. You're a
coward and a thief."
"Now stop that noise," said Stephen. "It's no use your making a fuss;
I want your shilling badly. I'm saving for new skates; and there's
certain to be ice on the lake in Lord Bentford's grounds early in the
new year."
"And I want to buy all sorts of things for mother and the children,"
sobbed the miserable and indignant Dick. "Listen to me, sir!" He ceased
crying, took a step towards young Filmer, and looked fearlessly into
his face. "If you don't give me back my money at once," he said, "I'll
go straight to the farm and tell your father."
"So that's your little game, is it?" exclaimed the bully. "Well, it's a
fortunate thing you mentioned it to me, because now I can tell you what
the result of your doing it would be. I should make my mother promise
me that she would never have Mrs. Wilkins to do washing or charing for
her again."
"O sir, you wouldn't be so wicked, surely!" Dick broke in, in accents
of alarm. "We should starve outright, I believe, without mother's
Wednesday and Saturday earnings at the Manor House. And the children
ain't half fed as it is!" He wound up with another flood of tears.
"Then hold your tongue, now that you know what your silence is worth,"
replied Stephen. "I'm sure you needn't make such a cry-baby of
yourself. I haven't hurt you, and I've given you a jolly little box."
"But the box isn't any use to me," Dick argued. "Please—please give
me back my shilling, Master Stephen. 'Tis dreadful to be hungry; and
mother started off to work this morning without a bit of anything
inside her lips, because she knew if she ate breakfast there wouldn't
have been enough for the little ones."
"Don't trouble to tell lies," the squire's son said, as he turned
contemptuously away. "Pick up your bundle and go home, or the bogies
that hang about these woods after dark will have you."
Without another word or look, he then strode off, and was quickly out
of sight. When he was visible no longer, Dick Wilkins sat down on his
load of sticks, hid his face in his hands, and wept long and piteously.
Dick was a brave-hearted lad, and at last recovered himself. He
determined that he would keep the treatment he had received at Stephen
Filmer's hands a secret from his mother. He would be brave, and bear
his trouble alone.
Up went the fagot on the child's thin shoulders. Try as he might, Dick
could not whistle to-day, as he usually did, because his eyes were so
full of tears that he had all he could do to see where he was going.
He trudged on, fighting against his grief, and by the time he reached
home, he had quite composed himself.
To his surprise, Dick found that Molly had already kindled a fire with
some of the wood he had gathered earlier in the day, and had set the
tea-things out upon the snow-white cloth.
"O Dick!" the little girl exclaimed, "What a long time you've been! And
how red the wind has made your poor eyes look—just as if you had been
crying!"
"Mother isn't back yet, I suppose," remarked the boy, taking no heed of
the comment his sister had made about his appearance.
"No; I expect, though, she'll be here soon now. Come close to the fire,
Dick—do! and warm yourself. The sticks you fetched this morning blaze
up splendidly; they give out better heat than any we've had as yet."
"That's right!" in gratified accents. "I'll bring home some more
to-morrow."
And Dick Wilkins took a stool, a sharp knife, and a basketful of
sticks, and sat down making clothes' pegs in the poor but well-warmed
kitchen; whilst Molly stood knitting by the firelight; and the twins
and Stranger occupied a prominent position on the hearth, and watched
the lifting cover of the already boiling kettle.
CHAPTER IV.
TEN SHILLINGS REWARD.
"MOTHER, how fast the days go by!" remarked little Dick one evening
after the other children had gone to bed. "The year is nearly out—only
a few days left of it now. O mother, don't you hope the next will be a
better one for us all than this has been?"
"Indeed I do!" sighed Mrs. Wilkins, and a hot tear fell upon her work;
she was knitting to-night by the uncertain light of the fire. "Life's a
struggle at the best of-times for poor people," she went on; "and when
the father of a family is taken, it's bound to go hard with those he
leaves behind."
"Ain't you straining your eyes?" asked the boy anxiously. "Do let me
light the lamp for you! We've been more sparing than ever over oil of
late, and I can't bear to think you may be hurting your sight."
"I don't need the use of my eyes to knit, dear," was the widow's
return. "If I was sewing, 'twould be different."
"But the room looks so dark and gloomy," persisted Dick. "And for
some reason or other, it seems more silent than usual. I wonder,"
turning his head to look about him, "what it is I miss. Oh! oh!" To
Mrs. Wilkins's dire dismay, he started to his feet and pointed at an
empty corner near the door—"I know now!" he gasped forth. "It's the
clock that's gone! O mother! Mother! Where is it? What has become of
it? 'Twas the one thing that father prized above all else we had, 'cos
grandfather gave it to him on his wedding-day."
"Ah, my child," sobbed the poor woman, "I have been forced to sell
it to Squire Filmer in order to pay the rent. The landlord was here
yesterday, and he threatened to sell us up if the money wasn't paid by
to-morrow. It's a great blow to me, but we must live."
There was a long pause; then Dick said: "O mother, however can we get
the money for poor Stranger's tax? O mother! Mother! Whatever happens,
we can't part with our dog."
Laying aside her knitting, Dick's mother placed a tender hand upon his
heaving shoulder. "My dear," she said, "the thought of it has worried
me nearly as much as the trouble about the rent; but I can't see any
chance of our being able to get the money to pay his tax."
"Then you really think we shall have to part with him?" cried Dick.
"Oh! God must be very cruel if He lets it come to that. I know our
Stranger wouldn't ever love other folks as he loves you and me and the
children. And if we sold him or gave him away, his new owner might kick
him about as—as some people do their dogs."
"Well, there's all next month for us to look around and try to serape
the money together, dear," the widow summoned heart enough to remind
her little boy. "As long as it's paid by the last day of January it
will be in time; and if 'tis right for us to keep our dog, why then we
shall find ways and means for doing so. Don't fret, child, more than
you can help. Whatever happens will be sure to be for the best. Now,
dry your eyes, and we'll have our supper cosy like in front of the
fire. If you lose heart, Dick, what'll become of us all?"
But though the old year died and the new one took its place, no sign
of better fortune could Mrs. Wilkins or Dick see. Stranger must be
disposed of—that seemed certain beyond a doubt; and if no one could be
induced to offer him a home, why then he would have to be killed. It
would be terrible indeed to part with so faithful a friend.
One evening at the end of January, little Dick was walking homeward
through the village by his mother's side, when a large, square piece
of paper, placed in a conspicuous position in the post-office window,
attracted his attention, and he paused abruptly, saying,—
"Wait half a minute, mother; I want to read this notice."
Mrs. Wilkins stopped at once, and together they approached the window,
whereupon Dick read aloud:—
"LOST, in this neighbourhood (probably a month
or six weeks ago), a small carved ivory match-box.
Finder will receive TEN SHILLINGS REWARD
by returning same to Colonel Flamank, Leigh Grange."
"Dick, Dick, my little boy, what's the matter with you? Are you ill?"
demanded Mrs. Wilkins; for the small face at her side had grown
suddenly as pale as death, and the child had clutched convulsively at
her arm.
"Ill?—No! No! No!" was the emphatic reply. "I'm well enough; only I can
scarce believe 'tis true!"
"What's true, Dick? I don't know what 'tis you're talking of."
"Why, the box, to be sure—the little carved ivory match-box that the
colonel's offering ten shillings reward for. See!" drawing it from his
pocket, where he had thrust it in disgust weeks and weeks ago. "Here
it is! Now we can claim the reward, pay dear old Stranger's tax, and
keep him; besides having a whole half-crown to spend as we're minded to
afterwards."
"O Dick, how wonderful! How like a miracle!" ejaculated the woman, with
a sob of thankfulness. "But are you sure there's no mistake? Are you
sure that that's the right box?"
"As good as sure," declared Dick. "Anyhow, I'll very soon make certain.
I shall go to Leigh Grange at once and ask to see the colonel. Then if
it's the right one, we'll pay Stranger's tax the first thing to-morrow
morning, and after that's done, we shall feel he's safe."
"Very well, my dear; I daresay, we shall all sleep the better to-night
for having the anxiety about the poor dog taken off our minds. But
why didn't you tell me you had found that match-box, Dick? You're not
generally so close about things."
"I didn't tell you because I didn't find it, and I could not bring
myself to worry you by saying how it got into my hands," was the
child's admission. Then, as they walked on side by side in the
direction of Leigh Grange, Dick narrated the story of his meeting in
the woods with Stephen Filmer, adding, "And I thought God was so cruel
to let that great bully rob me of the shilling when I wanted it so
badly. I little dreamed that things would turn out as they have."
And now that the silver lining had appeared to his cloud, Dick laughed
merrily at the thought of how vexed the squire's son would be when he
discovered what he had lost by not being able to restore the box.
"How shall you account to Colonel Flamank for having the match-box in
your possession?" Mrs. Wilkins presently interrogated. "If he asks
questions, you'll be bound to tell him the whole story that you've just
told me."
Dick hesitated a minute, after which he said,—
"I hadn't thought of that; and I shouldn't like to tell tales on Master
Stephen, though he did serve me shamefully bad that afternoon in the
woods. But there! Like as not, the colonel won't want particulars; and
if he doesn't, why then, I needn't give him any."
Arrived at the entrance of Leigh Grange, Dick bade his mother not to
wait for him, lest she should take cold by standing. Some seconds
later, he was walking up the colonel's trim carriage-drive, his heart
beating, his legs shaking beneath him, with nervousness and excitement.
CHAPTER V.
DICK'S INTERVIEW WITH THE COLONEL.
UPON Dick's stating the nature of his business at Leigh Grange, he was
admitted at once and shown into the library, a handsomely-furnished
room, the walls of which were lined by rows and rows of books. For many
minutes he was left alone, and during that time, he feasted his eyes on
his surroundings. At length, however, he heard a footstep, and a second
afterwards Colonel Flamank came in.
"Good-evening," said that gentleman, in pleasant tones. "What do you
want with me, little boy?"
"Please, sir, I've brought back the match-box that you lost some weeks
ago," said Dick Wilkins, his heart beating so loud that he fancied his
questioner must hear it.
"You have brought back my match-box!" exclaimed the colonel. "Come,
now, this is very strange. Squire Filmer's son came to me but a
half-hour since, and said he had found it, and would let me have it
to-morrow. But what is the matter?" he added, in surprise. "Surely you
are not going to cry!"
And the speaker took the match-box from the child's shaking hand,
whilst the latter burst into tears.
"O sir! O sir! Please to believe me when I tell you all about it,"
sobbed poor Dick, "'cos Master Stephen's treated me shameful, he has!
He's the biggest bully in the place, and he stole a shilling from me
when he found me alone in the woods."
Then seeing it was useless to keep back anything, the little boy
recounted the story of how the match-box had been forced upon him
in exchange for the coin that the artist had given him for fetching
his paints from the church. And so earnest was his voice, and
straightforward his manner, that his hearer was inclined to think he
told the truth.
"And you mean to tell me that you submitted to be robbed by young
Filmer?" questioned the colonel. "Why did you not report the matter to
his father? The squire would not have shielded him, I am sure, if you
had told him what you have now told me."
"I—I threatened Master Stephen that I would; and he said if I did,
he'd get my mother out of her charing and washing at the Manor House,"
sobbed the child bitterly. "And if you don't believe me about the
shilling, sir, please to ask the artist gentleman, and he'll tell you
that he gave it to me."
"And supposing I prove your story to be correct, and give you the ten
shillings reward, how shall you spend the money?" asked the colonel.
"I shall pay the tax for our Stranger, sir. We should have had to get
rid of him if—if it hadn't been for this."
Dick Wilkins's countenance brightened.
"Stranger is a dog, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir; a retriever. He came to our cottage one awful stormy night.
His paw was cut and bleeding; and some body'd been trying to drown him,
'cos he'd got a rope with a stone at the end of it tied around his
neck; and mother and I let him in, and did what we could for him."
"So he's stayed with you ever since! I believe I have seen him in the
village on several occasions—a handsome creature he seemed too."
"Yes! Yes!" assented Dick enthusiastically. "And if I'd had him with me
when Master Stephen came along that day, he wouldn't have let him bully
me—not he!"
The colonel remained silent for some minutes after this. He put on his
glasses and examined the match-box closely. At length he turned towards
Dick Wilkins again.
"I feel much troubled by what you have told me," he commented. "And at
the expense of some pain to the squire and his wife, I mean to see you
righted. It is not so very late in the evening yet; therefore you and I
will go down to the farm together, and see the gentleman who, you say,
gave you the shilling."
"Yes, sir," agreed Dick, without the least hesitation. "He's almost
sure to be in, 'cos the daylight's too far gone for him to be painting
still."
Accordingly the two set out to pay a visit to the Smerdons' lodger.
But scarce had they gone a hundred yards in the direction of the farm,
when they came face to face with Stephen Filmer. A strange expression
overspread the bully's features as he recognized the pair, and he would
have slunk past without speaking had not Colonel Flamank thought fit to
stop him.
"Wait, Stephen," said he; "I wish to speak to you about the lost
match-box that you assured me you would bring back to-morrow. This lad
has already brought it to me. What light can you throw upon the matter?"
"I found the match-box," answered the boy sulkily. "I only lent it to
Dick Wilkins, and I suppose he's been dishonest enough to claim the
reward."
"Oh!" cried Dick, in shocked accents. "Oh! how can you say so, Master
Stephen?"
At this point, Colonel Flamank interposed and bade Dick be silent.
"Stephen," he afterwards said, "you are telling me a deliberate
falsehood! You did not lend the match-box to this child; you forced it
on him, in return for his shilling, which you had stolen."
"Well, he agreed to the exchange," said young Filmer, forgetting that
a moment since he had stated that the match-box had been lent. "Do you
think, if I'd treated him as he says, that he wouldn't have made a fuss
and told my father about it?"
"You know what threats you employed to silence him, Stephen," rejoined
the colonel. "You know that you sealed his lips by saying you would
get his poor widowed mother out of her work at the Manor House, if he
carried his story to the squire."
"And so I will, now he has sneaked upon me," was the savage response.
"No, indeed, you will not," Colonel Flamank assured him. "Had you shown
any regret for your cowardly conduct, I might have been inclined to
spare you by letting the matter pass. But you are far from repentant;
and it is time a stop was put to your tyranny. I shall thoroughly
investigate this affair, and prove or disprove the truth of Dick
Wilkins's statement. After that, I shall make it my business to lay the
facts of the case before both your parents. Now you can go your way."
And the squire's son passed out of sight, for once in his life really
frightened and abashed.
"O sir!" gasped Dick, when he had gone, "I'm 'fraid he'll do some
mischief even now if he can. Supposing he should get my mother out of
her work at the Manor House! We should starve! And—and our landlord's a
hard man, he is!"
"Don't fear, my lad," returned the colonel reassuringly. "Squire
Filmer will see that no injustice is done. But here," he added, "we
are already at Farmer Smerdon's gate. You shall stay where you are,
whilst I go in and interview the donor of the shilling. And if I return
satisfied with what he tells me, I will at once hand you the ten
shillings reward."
"Yes, sir, thank you. I'll wait here."
Nor had he long to wait, for Colonel Flamank returned to him a few
minutes later with a smile of encouragement upon his face.
"Have you seen him, sir?" asked little Dick, scarcely able to suppress
his anxiety.
"Yes, and I am ready to give you what I promised."
So saying, the colonel laid a half-sovereign in Dick Wilkins's hand. It
was the first gold coin the child had ever touched.
CHAPTER VI.
HARD TIMES.
How proud Dick felt next day when he walked into the grocery
establishment that was also the post-office, laid his half-sovereign on
the counter, and said he had come to pay his dog-tax. Stranger was with
him, and in such high spirits that he found it hard to believe the dog
did not understand the nature of their errand.
"So you're not going to get rid of the retriever after all, then,"
remarked the post-mistress, after filling in and handing Dick the
receipt for his money.
"No," said the little boy; and then he pointed at the notice that had
not yet been removed from the window, and added, "That's how I got my
half-sovereign, Mrs. Mortimore. The colonel gave it to me for bringing
his match-box back to him last evening."
"You don't say so, Dick Wilkins!" ejaculated the woman, with
good-natured interest. "Well, you are lucky, and no mistake! Some one
told me only yesterday how upset all you children were at the thought
of parting with your dog. See! here's your two-and-sixpence change; and
here's a quarter-pound packet of tea that you can take home to your
mother as a present from me. Tell her I hope she'll enjoy it. She was
looking shocking thin and pale, I thought, when last I saw her."
"Thank you very much for the tea," said Dick gratefully. "Mother'll be
glad of it, I'm sure." And with this he turned towards the entrance
of the shop, and would have gone his way had not the talkative
post-mistress called him back to the counter again.
"If you take my advice, Dick Wilkins," she went on, "you'll get that
mother of yours to go and see the doctor. She's a failing woman—you
mark my words. Get Dr. Rogers to give your mother something—there's a
good boy!—or, in my belief, you won't have a mother to care for you
much longer."
Now Mrs. Mortimore was a kind woman and a well-meaning one. But she
lacked discretion, as this fact she would have realized could she have
heard Dick Wilkins sob himself to sleep in his own little room when
night-time came. Never did child love parent more devotedly than this
one did his mother. Therefore the post-mistress's words of warning sank
deep into his heart, and haunted him increasingly during the long hours
of the night.
Days passed, and work became even scarcer than hitherto. The cold got
more intense; and great was Dick's distress one evening on finding his
mother employed in cutting up her warm shawl to make bodices for the
twins.
"Mother," he burst forth, "oh, please, don't do it! You'll catch your
death of cold if you go out in this bitter wind without anything over
your shoulders. Let me go to the rector's wife and ask her for a couple
of cast-off wraps for Willie and Joe."
"No, no! I couldn't think of it, Dick! I never begged in my life!" was
the widow's answer.
"Do you feel bad this evening?" asked the boy in anxious tones. "I
mean—does your side ache worse than usual?"
"No, dear, not worse than usual. Why, Dick, folks would think I was a
grand body, if they knew how careful you were of me."
"I want you to see the doctor, mother. You do look ill and bad!"
declared Dick gravely.
"That's nonsense! It's the cold that nips me up," was the prompt
return. "'Tis freezing hard to-night again. I shouldn't be surprised if
the ice on the lake bears soon. Then you and the children'll be able to
go and watch the skating between whiles. Lord Bentford is certain to
throw his grounds open to the public as usual. O—oh!"
"What made you cry out like that? Why, you've got your hand tied up!
What's amiss with it?"
"There's a sore place on one of the fingers; and when I knocked it
against the table, it made me cry out. 'Twill be easier in a minute;"
and Mrs. Wilkins turned her face aside that Dick might not see it was
drawn with pain.
"How long has your finger been bad?" the little boy demanded.
"Not more than a few days. I hurt it on Tuesday with a pin that one of
the servants at the Manor House left in her apron when she gave it to
me to wash; but I didn't bind it up till an hour ago."
"And you've been working with it sore all day!" cried Dick, in much
concern. "Hasn't it pained you, mother?"
His mother confessed that it had been painful, but that a pennyworth of
ointment would soon put it to rights. Dick, however, insisted on her
seeing the doctor, who told her that her finger had been poisoned by
the stab of the pin. He told her, too, that her blood had got into an
unhealthy state, and that she must have plenty of good food if she was
to get well.
The poor woman was in despair. One by one her few remaining sticks of
furniture were sold for bread. Poor Dick was sure that God would never
desert them, and that help would soon arrive.
Then all at once a bright idea flashed into Dick's mind. To-morrow
would be Saturday, and school holiday. He would put a gimlet in his
pocket, go to Lord Bentford's lake, which by now was bearing, and try
to earn a few coppers by putting on the gentlefolks' skates. He would
not breathe one word of his intention to any one; no, not even to his
mother. So he went supperless to bed that night, full of hope for the
success of his new venture on the morrow.
CHAPTER VII.
A GALLANT RESCUE.
JUMPING out of bed early next morning, Dick dressed himself in haste
and went downstairs. It did not take him long to sweep the kitchen,
dust it, and kindle a bright fire; and by the time that Mrs. Wilkins,
Molly, and the twins put in their appearance, the table-cloth was laid
and the kettle was singing cheerily.
The Wilkins's repast that morning was a poor, poor meal, and Dick did
not stop long over it. Before half-past nine, he set out, gimlet in
pocket, for Lord Bentford's lake.
Although he was early in getting there, he found at least two dozen
skaters already arrived. It had been freezing hard all night, and the
ice was in excellent condition—as smooth as a sheet of glass.
"Blest if there isn't Widow Wilkins's youngster setting up in
opposition to us, Bill!" exclaimed a rough-looking idler to an equally
rough-looking companion.
The two men were standing on the edge of the lake, whither they
had come to earn a few shillings by putting on people's skates, an
employment needing but little exertion. Turning a scowling countenance
upon the child, the speaker then asked with an oath,—
"What's your charge, young professional? Penny a pair, eh? And chain
the gentlefolks' attention whilst that sharp-nosed retriever of yours
makes off with a rabbit from the plantation hard by."
Dick started and looked round quickly.
Not till this minute had it dawned on him that his dog had followed.
Had he loitered on his way, or even glanced once behind, he must
certainly have seen Stranger stealthily tracking him. But he had
done neither; and now as he stared in vexation at the animal, his
commonsense told him that he must take him home before Lord Bentford or
his gamekeepers had a chance of seeing him.
This, however, was not to be. For no sooner had Dick determined to
retrace his footsteps than a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and
an angry voice demanded,—
"Have you had permission to bring that dog of yours here?"
"No," returned Dick, "I haven't."
It was Lord Bentford's head gamekeeper who had put the question.
"I've only this minute seen him. He must have followed me without my
noticing. But I'm going to take him away at once. He hasn't done any
harm.—Stranger, old man, come on."
But for once, in a way, the retriever was pleased to be disobedient.
He had caught sight of a couple of Lady Bentford's collies scampering
across the frozen lake, and with a bark of delight had set off to join
in their play—behaviour that filled his young master's heart with
dismay and humiliation.
"Let me catch the lawless brute as much as looking into one of the
plantations and I'll shoot him, as sure as my name is what it is,"
cried the exasperated gamekeeper, turning angrily away.
Dick trembled at the threat, and set off after his wayward property.
But the ice was slippery, and he fell once or twice and hurt himself
badly. He had just picked himself up, when a piercing shriek rang
through the air, and was followed by a woman's scream of alarm and a
man's loud shout for help.
The refreshment tent was deserted, and every one made a dash for
the spot whence the cries had come. Even disheartened Dick and his
retriever followed.
"A rope, a rope!" some one was calling. "Bring a rope this minute.
There's a child in the water, near the boathouse, where the ice has
been broken for the swans. Quickly, quickly, or we shall be too late!"
"No, a ladder will be better," declared a second voice. "A long ladder
and a rope." Thereupon, a third informed the crowd that it was Lord
Bentford's little boy who was in peril—his only child, indeed, and the
heir to all his land.
"'Tis a wonder if the kid ain't drowned, for he's tumbled in at the
deepest part," was the grim remark of one of the idlers who, a couple
of hours since, had jeered at little Dick. "But then Death don't
make no distinctions. And it's no more for his lordship to lose his
youngster than 'twould be for me to lose one of mine."
"Oh, my child! My darling! He will be drowned—I know he will!" wailed
the distracted mother. "Can nothing be done to save him? Oh, he will
get beneath the boathouse, and—"
"Please—please, your ladyship," gasped Dick, elbowing his way through
the crowd to the place where both parents were standing, "Stranger'll
do it, if you let him try. Stranger'll save the little gentleman."
"Stranger?" Lord Bentford panted. "Who is Stranger, child?"
"My dog, your lordship. Here he is. He's a first-class swimmer is our
Stranger."
Then leading the retriever to the brink of the ice, Dick pointed out
the spot where the child had sunk.
"Fetch him," he cried incitingly. "Fetch him, good dog, good dog!"
And needing no further bidding, Stranger plunged into the lake and kept
himself afloat while he looked eagerly about him.
For several seconds there was breathless silence. The unfortunate
little boy had not yet risen, and there was the chance that when he
did he might come up at a spot that was completely covered by ice.
Happily, however, this contingency had not to be met; for presently a
dark object rose a few feet from the boathouse, and the keen-sighted
dog struck out gallantly towards it. A moment later, Stranger had
fastened his long white teeth into the child's kilted skirts, and set
out snorting for the bank.
"Bravo! Bravo!" burst from at least a dozen lips.
Then as the dog, well-nigh exhausted, came within reach, willing
hands were stretched forth to relieve him of his burden; and the
snow-sweepers, making their reappearance with ropes and a long ladder,
saw that their assistance was not wanted after all.
"Tell me," cried Lady Bentford, wringing her hands over the dripping
form of her child, "does he still breathe?"
"Yes, he is living," came the answer.
Hearing which, Lord Bentford, almost beside himself with gratitude,
turned impulsively aside to address the owner of the dog.
The long spell of misery and privation, however, coupled with the
terrible excitement of the morning, had proved too great a strain for
Dick Wilkins's endurance. He had borne up until the safety of Lord
Bentford's son had been accomplished. He had kept his senses whilst the
crowd had cheered and commended his dog; but now, he sank down with
a groan upon the bank close to the boathouse, and ere his lordship
reached his side consciousness left him, and he fainted.
CHAPTER VIII.
STRANGER'S MISSION FULFILLED.
IT was not until several weeks later, that entire consciousness
returned to little Dick. And then, to his great amazement, he found
himself lying in a strange bed, too weak to move either hand or foot,
whilst a cheerful looking nurse, clad in a dark dress and white cap,
cuffs, and apron, sat on a chair near the window watching him.
At first he thought he must be in some kind of hospital. But this idea
vanished when the nurse presently rose and left the room, and Mrs.
Wilkins, trembling with agitation, entered.
"Mother!" Dick's voice was feeble; scarce above a whisper—"Mother, come
here; I want you."
"Dick! O Dick, my darling, thank God you know me at last!" burst from
the widow's lips, as tears of happiness coursed one another down
her cheeks. "But don't attempt to move—there's a dear boy!—or Nurse
Millicent will think I am exciting you, and send me away."
"Where am I, mother? I don't know this place."
"Why, you're at home, Dick, to be sure."
"Home!" was the faint echo. "No, we don't live here!" and the child's
eyes wandered perplexedly from one side of the room to the other,
finally resting on the chintz curtains at the window.
"Yes, we do, Dick. This is our pretty new home. We left the old one
weeks ago, and are living in one of the cottages in Lord Bentford's
estate now. And oh, my dear, we shall never any of us suffer from cold
or hunger any more."
"Cold!" murmured the boy slowly. "Hunger! Yes, I remember all about it
now." Then making a tremendous effort, he inquired, "And the little
youngster who fell into the water—is he living?"
"Yes; and he's as well as ever he was—thanks to our good Stranger for
saving him!"
"Why am I lying here in bed, mother? I feel so weak. Have I been ill?"
"Yes, dear, you've been very, very ill; but you're much better now, and
are going to get quite well, the doctor says. That lady who was here
a minute since is a hospital nurse that Lord Bentford telegraphed to
London for when first you—you broke down. There, I mustn't talk any
longer; and you mustn't ask more questions. You shall know everything
later on, when you are stronger."
Next day, there was a marked improvement in Dick's condition; and the
doctor, when he called to see him in the forenoon, declared him to be
getting on better than he had expected.
Accordingly, when Dick and his mother were next left together, the
latter did not check the questions that came from the former's lips.
"I'll tell you all that happened, Dick," Mrs. Wilkins said. "After the
accident on the lake, both Lord and Lady Bentford came down to our
cottage, where you had been carried, and saw what a dreadful state of
poverty we were in. Nothing would satisfy his lordship but that we
should move at once into this beautiful cottage that happened to be
empty, and have everything we needed. Talk of gratitude—I believe Lord
and Lady Bentford are so grateful to you and Stranger for saving their
only child that you might both 'eat off gold,' as the saying is, if you
wanted to. We are to live here—rent free!" declared the widow. "Lord
Bentford insists upon it. He has paid for all the furniture, and given
us—oh, I can't tell what he hasn't given us! And directly my hand is
strong enough to use, I am to go up to his beautiful house every day
and work under the housekeeper."
"Mother, 'tis like a dream! Only, I don't want to wake up ever again,
if it is."
"Hark!" said his mother. "Do you know that sound—that 'scratch,
scratch,' outside the door?"
"Stranger!" breathed the sick boy, his blue eyes brightening. "May he
come in and see me?"
"If you feel well enough to see him. His spirits are higher than ever,
I do believe!"
So saying, Mrs. Wilkins went to the door, and let the retriever in. And
a minute later, the faithful dog was clasped in his master's arms.
"Why, whatever's this?" demanded Dick, when he had blinked the tears of
weakness from his eyes. "He's got on a silver collar! And—and there's
writing engraved on it. Read it, mother; please do!"
"It says that the collar was presented to him by Lord and Lady
Bentford, in grateful recognition of his splendid service in saving
their only child from drowning," explained Mrs. Wilkins.
"Brave Stranger!" exclaimed little Dick. "Mother, don't you feel proud
of him?"
"Yes, dear," was the prompt answer; "but I'm prouder still of you."
"Of me!" breathed the boy. "Why, mother, I've done nothing, though I
did try all I could to earn some coppers that morning by putting on
folks' skates!"
"You cheered and heartened me, Dick," sobbed the woman, "when, but for
your faith in God's mercy, I should have sunk beneath my load."
"God sent that dog to our door," said Dick. "I always felt certain of
that! He meant him to bring us good fortune; and sure enough he has!"
THE END.
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