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Page 15
On the steps of the veranda the downy and fat puppy watched his
mother's departure with no especial interest. By the Mistress's
wish, Mr. Hazen had not been required to make any part of his
proffered hundred-dollar payment for the return of his boy's pet.
All the Mistress had stipulated was that Lass might be allowed to
remain at The Place until baby Bruce should no longer need her.
"Bruce," said the Mistress as the car rolled up the drive and out
of sight, "you are the sole visible result of The Place's
experiment in raising prize collies. You have a tremendous
responsibility on those fat little shoulders of yours,--to live
up to it all."
By way of showing his scorn for such trifles as a "tremendous
responsibility," Bruce proceeded to make a ferocious onslaught at
the Mistress's temperamental gray Persian kitten, "Tipperary,"
which was picking a mincing way across the veranda.
A howl of pain and two scratches on his tiny nose immediately
followed the attack. Tipperary then went on with her mincing
promenade. And Bruce, with loud lamentations, galloped to the
shelter of the Mistress's skirt.
"Poor little chap!" soothed the Mistress, picking him up and
comforting him. "Responsibility isn't such a joke, after all, is
it, Baby?"
CHAPTER II. The Pest
Thackeray, as a lad, was dropped from college for laziness and
for gambling. Bismarck failed to get a University degree, because
he lacked power to study and because he preferred midnight beer
to midnight oil. George Washington, in student days, could never
grasp the simplest rules of spelling. The young Lincoln loved to
sprawl in the shade with fish-pole or tattered book, when he
should have been working.
Now, these men were giants--physically as well as mentally. Being
giants, they were by nature slow of development.
The kitten, at six months of age, is graceful and compact and of
perfect poise. The lion-cub, at the same age, is a gawky and
foolish and ill-knit mass of legs and fur; deficient in sense and
in symmetry. Yet at six years, the lion and the cat are not to be
compared for power or beauty or majesty or brain, or along any
other lines.
The foregoing is not an essay on the slow development of the
Great. It is merely a condensation of the Mistress's earnest
arguments against the selling or giving away of a certain
hopelessly awkward and senseless and altogether undesirable
collie pup named Bruce.
From the very first, the Mistress had been Bruce's champion at
The Place. There was no competition for that office. She and she
alone could see any promise in the shambling youngster.
Because he had been born on The Place, and because he was the
only son of Rothsay Lass, whom the Mistress had also championed
against strong opposition, it had been decided to keep and raise
him. But daily this decision seemed less and less worth while.
Only the Mistress's championing of the Undesirable prevented his
early banishment.
From a fuzzy and adventurous fluff-ball of gray-gold-and-white
fur, Bruce swiftly developed into a lanky giant. He was almost as
large again as is the average collie pup of his age; but, big as
he was, his legs and feet and head were huge, out of all
proportion to the rest of him. The head did not bother him. Being
hampered by no weight of brain, it would be navigated with more
or less ease, in spite of its bulk. But the legs and feet were
not only in his own way, but in every one else's.
He seemed totally lacking in sense, as well as in bodily
coordination. He was forever getting into needless trouble. He
was a stormcenter. No one but a born fool--canine or human--could
possibly have caused one-tenth as much bother.
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