The Complete Stories of Morley Callaghan - Volume Two Page 7

  “The plain fact is the old dog isn’t worth his keep any more. It’s time we got rid of him.”

  “It’s always so hard to know how to get rid of a dog, Henry.”

  “I was thinking about it the other day. Some people think it’s best to shoot a dog. I haven’t had any shells for that shotgun for over a year. Poisoning is a hard death for a dog. Maybe drowning is the easiest and quickest way. Well, I’ll speak to one of the mill hands and have him look after it.”

  Crouching on the ground, his arms around the old collie’s neck, Luke cried out, “Uncle Henry, Dan’s a wonderful dog! You don’t know how wonderful he is!”

  “He’s just a very old dog, son,” Uncle Henry said calmly. “The time comes when you have to get rid of any old dog. We’ve got to be practical about it. I’ll get you a pup, son. A smart little dog that’ll be worth its keep. A pup that will grow up with you.”

  “I don’t want a pup!” Luke cried, turning his face away. Circling around him, the dog began to bark, then flick his long pink tongue at the back of Luke’s neck.

  Aunt Helen, catching her husband’s eye, put her finger on her lips, warning him not to go on talking in front of the boy. “An old dog like that often wanders into the brush and sort of picks a place to die when the time comes. Isn’t that so, Henry?”

  “Oh, sure,” he agreed quickly. “In fact, when Dan didn’t show up yesterday, I was sure that was what had happened.” Then he yawned and seemed to forget about the dog.

  But Luke was frightened, for he knew what his uncle was like. He knew that if his uncle had decided that the dog was useless and that it was sane and sensible to get rid of it, he would be ashamed of himself if he were diverted by any sentimental considerations. Luke knew in his heart that he could not move his uncle. All he could do, he thought, was keep the dog away from his uncle, keep him out of the house, feed him when Uncle Henry wasn’t around.

  Next day at noontime Luke saw his uncle walking from the mill toward the house with old Sam Carter, a mill hand. Sam Carter was a dull, stooped, slow-witted man of sixty with an iron-gray beard, who was wearing blue overalls and a blue shirt. Watching from the veranda, Luke noticed that his uncle suddenly gave Sam Carter a cigar, which Sam put in his pocket. Luke had never seen his uncle give Sam a cigar or pay much attention to him.

  Then, after lunch, Uncle Henry said lazily that he would like Luke to take his bicycle and go into town and get him some cigars.

  “I’ll take Dan,” Luke said.

  “Better not, son,” Uncle Henry said. “It’ll take you all afternoon. I want those cigars. Get going, Luke.”

  His uncle’s tone was so casual that Luke tried to believe they were not merely getting rid of him. Of course he had to do what he was told. He had never dared to refuse to obey an order from his uncle. But when he had taken his bicycle and had ridden down the path that followed the stream to the town road and had got about a quarter of a mile along the road, he found that all he could think of was his uncle handing old Sam Carter the cigar.

  Slowing down, sick with worry now, he got off the bike and stood uncertainly on the sunlit road. Sam Carter was a gruff, aloof old man who would have no feeling for a dog. Then suddenly Luke could go no farther without getting some assurance that the collie would not be harmed while he was away. Across the fields he could see the house.

  Leaving the bike in the ditch, he started to cross the field, intending to get close enough to the house so Dan could hear him if he whistled softly. He got about fifty yards away from the house and whistled and waited, but there was no sign of the dog, which might be asleep at the front of the house, he knew, or over at the sawmill. With the saws whining, the dog couldn’t hear the soft whistle. For a few minutes Luke couldn’t make up his mind what to do, then he decided to go back to the road, get on his bike, and go back the way he had come until he got to the place where the river path joined the road. There he could leave his bike, go up the path, then into the tall grass and get close to the front of the house and the sawmill without being seen.

  He had followed the river path for about a hundred yards, and when he came to the place where the river began to bend sharply toward the house his heart fluttered and his legs felt paralyzed, for he saw the old rowboat in the one place where the river was deep, and in the rowboat was Sam Carter with the collie.

  The bearded man in the blue overalls was smoking his cigar; the dog, with a rope around its neck, sat contentedly beside him, its tongue going out in a friendly lick at the hand holding the rope. It was all like a crazy dream picture to Luke; all wrong because it looked so lazy and friendly, even the curling smoke from Sam Carter’s cigar. But as Luke cried out, “Dan, Dan! Come on, boy!” and the dog jumped at the water, he saw that Carter’s left hand was hanging deep in the water, holding a foot of rope with a heavy stone at the end. As Luke cried out wildly, “Don’t! Please don’t!” Carter dropped the stone, for the cry came too late; it was blurred by the screech of the big saws at the mill. But Carter was startled, and he stared stupidly at the riverbank, then he ducked his head and began to row quickly to the bank.

  But Luke was watching the collie take what looked like a long, shallow dive, except that the hind legs suddenly kicked up above the surface, then shot down, and while he watched, Luke sobbed and trembled, for it was as if the happy secret part of his life around the sawmill was being torn away from him. But even while he watched, he seemed to be following a plan without knowing it, for he was already fumbling in his pocket for his jackknife, jerking the blade open, pulling off his pants, kicking his shoes off, while he muttered fiercely and prayed that Sam Carter would get out of sight.

  It hardly took the mill hand a minute to reach the bank and go slinking furtively around the bend as if he felt that the boy was following him. But Luke hadn’t taken his eyes off the exact spot in the water where Dan had disappeared. As soon as the mill hand was out of sight, Luke slid down the bank and took a leap at the water, the sun glistening on his slender body, his eyes wild with eagerness as he ran out to the deep place, then arched his back and dived, swimming under water, his open eyes getting used to the greenish-gray haze of the water, the sandy bottom, and the imbedded rocks.

  His lungs began to ache, then he saw the shadow of the collie, floating at the end of the taut rope, rock-held in the sand. He slashed at the rope with his knife. He couldn’t get much strength in his arm because of the resistance of the water. He grabbed the rope with his left hand, hacking with his knife. The collie suddenly drifted up slowly, like a water-soaked log. Then his own head shot above the surface, and, while he was sucking in the air, he was drawing in the rope, pulling the collie toward him and treading water. In a few stokes he was away from the deep place and his feet touched the bottom.

  Hoisting the collie out of the water, he scrambled toward the bank, lurching and stumbling in fright because the collie felt like a dead weight.

  He went on up the bank and across the path to the tall grass, where he fell flat, hugging the dog and trying to warm him with his own body. But the collie didn’t stir, the good amber eye remained closed. Then suddenly Luke wanted to act like a resourceful, competent man. Getting up on his knees, he stretched the dog out on his belly, drew him between his knees, felt with trembling hands for the soft places on the flanks just above the hip-bones, and rocked back and forth, pressing with all his weight, then relaxing the pressure as he straightened up. He hoped that he was working the dog’s lungs like a bellows. He had read that men who had been thought drowned had been saved in this way.

  “Come on, Dan. Come on, old boy,” he pleaded softly. As a little water came from the collie’s mouth, Luke’s heart jumped, and he muttered over and over, “You can’t be dead, Dan! You can’t, you can’t! I won’t let you die, Dan!” He rocked back and forth tirelessly, applying the pressure to the flanks. More water dribbled from the mouth. In the collie’s body he felt a faint tremor. “Oh, gee, Dan, you’re alive,” he whispered. “Come on, boy. Keep it up.”
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br />   With a cough the collie suddenly jerked his head back, the amber eye opened, and there they were looking at each other. Then the collie, thrusting his legs out stiffly, tried to hoist himself up, staggered, tried again, then stood there in a stupor. He shook himself like any other wet dog, turned his head, eyed Luke, and the red tongue came out in a weak flick at Luke’s cheek.

  “Lie down, Dan,” Luke said. As the dog lay down beside him, Luke closed his eyes, buried his head in the wet fur, and wondered why the muscles of his arms and legs began to jerk in a nervous reaction, now that it was all over. “Stay there, Dan,” he said softly, and he went back to the path, got his clothes, and came back beside Dan and put them on. “I think we’d better get away from this spot, Dan,” He said. “Keep down, boy. Come on.” He crawled on through the tall grass till they were about seventy-five yards from the place where he had undressed. There they lay down together.

  In a little while he heard his aunt’s voice calling, “Luke. Oh, Luke! Come here, Luke!”

  “Quiet, Dan,” Luke whispered. A few minutes passed, and then Uncle Henry called, “Luke, Luke!” and he began to come down the path. They could see him standing there, massive and imposing, his hands on his hips as he looked down the path, then he turned and went back to the house.

  As he watched the sunlight shine on the back of his uncle’s neck, the exultation Luke had felt at knowing the collie was safe beside him turned to bewildered despair, for he knew that even if he should be forgiven for saving the dog when he saw it drowning, the fact was that his uncle had been thwarted. His mind was made up to get rid of Dan, and in a few days’ time in another way, he would get rid of him, as he got rid of anything around the mill that he believed to be useless or a waste of money.

  As he lay back and looked up at the hardly moving clouds, he began to grow frightened. He couldn’t go back to the house, nor could he take the collie into the woods and hide him and feed him there unless he tied him up. If he didn’t tie him up, Dan would wander back to the house.

  “I guess there’s just no place to go, Dan,” he whispered sadly. “Even if we start off along the road, somebody is sure to see us.”

  But Dan was watching a butterfly that was circling above them. Raising himself a little, Luke looked through the grass at the corner of the house, then he turned and looked the other way to the wide blue lake. With a sign he lay down again, and for hours they lay together, until there was no sound from the saws in the mill and the sun moved low in the western sky.

  “Well, we can’t stay here any longer, Dan,” he said at last. “We’ll just have to get as far away as we can. Keep down, old boy,” and he began to crawl through the grass, going farther away from the house. When he could no longer be seen he got up and began to trot across the field toward the gravel road leading to town.

  On the road, the collie would turn from time to time as if wondering why Luke shuffled along, dragging his feet wearily, head down. “I’m stumped, that’s all, Dan,” Luke explained. “I can’t seem to think of a place to take you.” When they were passing the Kemp place, they saw the old man sitting on the veranda, and Luke stopped. All he could think of was that Mr. Kemp had liked them both and it had been a pleasure to help him get the cows in the evening. Dan had always been with them. Staring at the figure of the old man on the veranda, he said in a worried tone, “I wish I could be sure of him, Dan. I wish he was a dumb, stupid man who wouldn’t know or care whether you were worth anything . . .Well, come on.” He opened the gate bravely, but he felt shy and unimportant.

  “Hello, son. What’s on your mind?” Mr. Kemp called from the veranda. He was a thin, wiry man in a tan-colored shirt. He had a gray untidy moustache, his skin was wrinkled and leathery, but his eyes were always friendly and amused.

  “Could I speak to you, Mr. Kemp?” Luke asked when they were close to the veranda.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “It’s about Dan. He’s a great dog, but I guess you know that as well as I do. I was wondering if you could keep him here for me.”

  “Why should I keep Dan here, son?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Luke said, fumbling the words awkwardly: “My uncle won’t let me keep him any more . . . says he’s too old.” His mouth began to tremble, then he blurted out the story.

  “I see, I see,” Mr. Kemp said slowly, and he got up and came over to the steps and sat down and began to stroke the collie’s head. “Of course, Dan’s an old dog, son,” he said quietly. “And sooner or later you’ve got to get rid of an old dog. Your uncle knows that. Maybe it’s true that Dan isn’t worth his keep.”

  “He doesn’t eat much, Mr. Kemp. Just one meal a day.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to think your uncle was cruel and unfeeling, Luke,” Mr. Kemp went on. “He’s a fine man . . . maybe just a little bit too practical and straightforward.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Luke agreed, but he was really waiting and trusting the expression in the old man’s eyes.

  “Maybe you should make him a special proposition.”

  “I — I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, I sort of like the way you get the cows for me in the evenings,” Mr. Kemp said, smiling to himself. “In fact, I don’t think you need me to go along with you at all. Now, supposing I gave you seventy-five cents a week. Would you get the cows for me every night?”

  “Sure, I would, Mr. Kemp. I like doing it, anyway.”

  “All right, son. It’s a deal. Now I’ll tell you what to do. You go back to your uncle, and before he has a chance to open up on you, you say right out that you’ve come to him with a business proposition. Say it like a man, just like that. Offer to pay him the seventy-five cents a week for the dog’s keep.”

  “But my uncle doesn’t need seventy-five cents, Mr. Kemp,” Luke said uneasily.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Kemp agreed. “It’s the principle of the thing. Be confident. Remember that he’s got nothing against the dog. Go to it, son. Let me know how you do,” he added, with an amused smile. “If I know your uncle at all, I think it’ll work.”

  “I’ll try it, Mr. Kemp,” Luke said. “Thanks very much.” But he didn’t have any confidence, for even though he knew that Mr. Kemp was a wise old man who would not deceive him, he couldn’t believe that seventy-five cents a week would stop his uncle, who was an important man. “Come on, Dan,” he called, and he went slowly and apprehensively back to the house.

  When they were going up the path, his aunt cried from the open window, “Henry, in heaven’s name, it’s Luke with the dog!”

  Ten paces from the veranda, Luke stopped and waited nervously for his uncle to come out. Uncle Henry came out in a rush, but when he saw the collie and Luke standing there, he stopped stiffly, turned pale, and his mouth hung open.

  “Luke,” he whispered, “that dog had a stone around his neck.”

  “I fished him out of the stream,” Luke said uneasily.

  “Oh. Oh, I see,” Uncle Henry said, and gradually the color came back to his face. “You fished him out, eh?” he asked, still looking at the dog. “Well, you shouldn’t have done that. I told Sam Carter to get rid of the dog, you know.”

  “Just a minute, Uncle Henry,” Luke said, trying not to falter. He gained confidence as Aunt Helen came out and stood beside her husband, for her eyes seemed to be gentle, and he went on bravely, “I want to make you a practical proposition, Uncle Henry.”

  “A what?” Uncle Henry asked, still feeling insecure, and wishing the boy and the dog weren’t confronting him.

  “A practical proposition,” Luke blurted out quickly. “I know Dan isn’t worth his keep to you. I guess he isn’t anything to anybody but me. So I’ll pay you seventy-five cents a week for his keep.”

  “What’s this?” Uncle Henry asked, looking bewildered. “Where would you get seventy-five cents a week, Luke?”

  “I’m going to get the cows every night for Mr. Kemp.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry,” Aunt Helen
pleaded, looking distressed, “let him keep the dog!” and she fled into the house.

  “None of that kind of talk!” Uncle Henry called after her. “We’ve got to be sensible about this!” But he was shaken himself, and overwhelmed with a distress that destroyed his confidence. As he sat down slowly in the rocking chair and stroked the side of his big face, he wanted to say, “All right, keep the dog,” but he was ashamed of being so weak and sentimental. He stubbornly refused to yield to this emotion; he was trying desperately to turn his emotion into a bit of good, useful common sense, so he could justify his distress. So he rocked and pondered. At last he smile, “You’re a smart little shaver, Luke,” he said slowly. “Imagine you working it out like this. I’m tempted to accept your proposition.”

  “Thank, Uncle Henry.”

  “I’m accepting it because I think you’ll learn something out of this,” he went on ponderously.

  “Yes, Uncle Henry.”

  “You’ll learn that useless luxuries cost the smartest of men hard-earned money.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Well, it’s a thing you’ll have to learn sometime. I think you’ll learn, too, because you certainly seem to have a practical streak in you. It’s a streak I like to see in a boy. O.K., son,” he said, and he smiled with relief and went into the house.

  Turning to Dan, Luke whispered softly, “Well, what do you know about that?”

  As he sat down on the step with the collie beside him and listened to Uncle Henry talking to his wife, he began to glow with exultation. Then gradually his exultation began to change to a vast wonder that Mr. Kemp should have had such a perfect understanding of Uncle Henry. He began to dream of some day being as wise as old Mr. Kemp and knowing exactly how to handle people. It was possible, too, that he had already learned some of the things about his uncle that his father had wanted him to learn.

  Putting his head down on the dog’s neck, he vowed to himself fervently that he would always have some money on hand, no matter what became of him, so that he would be able to protect all that was truly valuable from the practical people of the world.