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Rick and Ruddy

<h3>CHAPTER III RICK AND RUDDY</h3> Washed overboard from the deck of the vessel, not long after he had been roughly tossed into a box by the man who wanted a lucky "mascot," Ruddy had swam ashore. The food given him by the coast guard had dulled, just a little, the gnawing pangs of hunger, and now, as Ruddy crouched among the sand hills, trying to find shelter from the storm, he felt the first gleam of hope that had come to him in many a day. "Maybe I'll find a home after all," he thought to himself, for I believe that dogs can talk and think—not as we do, of course; perhaps sometimes not as well, and again, perhaps, better. But they do think. And so Ruddy, which was to be his name, as it was now his color, thought and hoped. The man had driven him away—so Ruddy believed, but in this he was wrong. Very well. It was not the first time he had been driven away. He would have to look for someone else who would feed him, or at least give him the chance to feed himself. He would have to look for someone else whom he might love as only a dog can love—with all his heart and being. "I'll stay here until morning," reasoned Ruddy, dog-fashion. "It's too dark now to see where to go, and it's raining too hard. I'll stay here in the sand until morning, then I can see better." Dogs do not have very good eyesight—not nearly as good as cats. In fact a dog can not see far enough to tell his master from among a group of other boys, if his master is more than a few hundred feet away. But if the wind is blowing toward the dog, and he once catches a whiff of the scent, or smell, of the boy he knows so well, he does not need eyes to tell him what he wants to know. An eagle could not dart with any more sureness toward an object than can a dog, once he catches the smell of his master. And Ruddy, like all dogs, poor of sight even in daytime, and hardly able to see at all in the dark, knew it was useless to try to look for a home in that blackness and storm. A cat might have found her way to where she wanted to go, but Ruddy did not even know where to look for a home. He was a wanderer—an outcast. Up among the sand dunes grew clumps of tall, coarse grass. One of these clumps would make a resting place for the dog. He found a mass of green stems that were thicker than the others, found it by smelling his way and feeling, rather than by sight, and then made himself a sort of nest, by turning around and around before he curled up to lie down. Nearly all dogs—even the tiny poodle that sleeps on a blue cushion in some lady's parlor—turn around and around on their bed before settling down to go to sleep. Perhaps the dogs themselves do not know why they do this, but it is because all dogs were once wild, like wolves. In fact dogs really come from wolves, ages back. And wild animals, going to sleep in the woods or jungle, have to be careful of where they make their bed. If they curled up in the first bunch of grass they came to, they might lie down on some snake, or scorpion, which would bite them. So, ages back, the wild dogs, little different from wolves, got in the habit of trampling their grassy bed, walking around and around in it. They did not do this to make it snug and cozy, as perhaps a cat might do. They did it to trample on and drive out any snakes that might be hidden in the grass. And so Ruddy, before he curled up to try to go to sleep in the sedge grass of the sand dunes, did just as his wild, wolfish ancestors had done—he trampled the grass. Of course there were no snakes in it, but Ruddy must make sure in the only way he knew. "There, I guess this will do until morning," said Ruddy to himself, thinking in dog-fashion, of course. Then he curled up and went to sleep. He was tired from his swim to shore through the storm, and he was still hungry. The bit of bread and meat the coast guard had given him was hardly enough for a small kitten, and Ruddy was quite a large puppy now. But it was the best he could get. "Maybe, in the morning, I'll find a home," thought Ruddy. "The kind of a home I used to have when I was very little." And Rick, sleeping in his white bed, safe and snug and warm away from the north-easter, awakened for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. He heard the beat of rain on the dark window of his room. "Maybe, when it's morning, I'll have a dog," he whispered. "I—I hope it isn't a cat!" Perhaps Ruddy dreamed of the happy days of his smallest puppyhood. Those days had been happy, for he had lived them in a fine barn, with his mother, and several other little reddish-brown puppies like himself. They tumbled about in the straw, and there were horses that Ruddy learned to love, in the short time he knew them, almost as much as he loved a certain boy and girl who raced out from the big house, every morning, to look at, laugh over and play with the puppies, of whom Ruddy was one. Then had come sad days, when he was sold and taken away from the tumbling, weak-legged brothers and sisters, and the mother dog, against whose warm flanks Ruddy loved to cuddle. At first these changed days had not been unhappy, for Ruddy was given a home in another barn, where there was only one horse, instead of many, and where a man came to feed him every morning. But a tramp had stolen Ruddy away, and then had left him behind in the woods, too lazy to take the little dog with him. After that Ruddy had taken part in many adventures, coming at last to live in the slums of a city, where a man claimed him as his own. And the man had taken Ruddy with him on the ship, and then had come a terrible time in the storm, when the red-brown puppy was washed overboard. All these thoughts and remembrances fleetingly came to Ruddy as he was curled up in the sedge grass, sheltered as much as he could be sheltered from the rain and salty spume-scattering wind. The longest night must have an end, and so to Ruddy daylight finally came, and, with it, the breaking of the storm. It was cold, though it was early September, but September was being crowded off the calendar by October, and the rays of the early sun, as the big, golden ball seemed to rise from the heaving ocean, had little warmth in them. It was as if the sun's rays came from a looking glass. Cold, shivery and hungry, Ruddy crept from his nest in the grass, even as his jungle ancestors might have crept from theirs. But there was no warmth to greet him, and he did not know where to get any food. "I'm certainly hungry!" said Ruddy to himself. "I wonder where I can get something to eat?" Down a little way from the sand dunes stretched the beach, with the surf pounding on it. Here and there a stray fish was cast up, and, had Ruddy known it, this might have provided a breakfast for him. But Ruddy was not a cat. He was not specially fond of fish, and he was afraid of the ocean—at any rate for a time. He had nearly been drowned in it, and he did not want to go near the big waves again; at least right away. So he turned from the beach and, heading inland, sniffed the air, with head held as high as he could raise it. Ruddy remembered that his mother, among the lessons she had taught him, had told him how much depended on his nose. "You can't tell so much about a thing by looking at it as you can by smelling of it," she had said. That is why Ruddy, as all dogs do, always smelled of anything before he ate it. His eyesight could not be depended on, but his nose could. And now Ruddy was sniffing the air. It was not because he wanted to eat air for his breakfast, but the air, and the wind, which is only air in motion, might bring to him the whiff, or smell, that would tell him where he could find food. Now from the ocean came the smell of the salty sea. Ruddy was sure he had had enough of that. But as he turned his nose inshore he caught the smell of men and boys and horses—the human smell, so to speak, and he knew that there, if anywhere, he would find something to eat. And so, traveling on rather weak and uncertain legs, because he needed food, Ruddy started toward the little village of Belemere, where Rick, the boy, lived. Though, of course, Ruddy did not yet know that. It was early, for the sun was just rising, and not many persons were up and about. Here a milkman was going his rounds, and soon the baker would follow, for even in the little fishing town few did their own baking, at least of their daily bread, and there were scarcely any cows. Ruddy looked at the rattling milk wagon. He knew what was in the cans and bottles, and he would have loved a drink of milk. But the man on the wagon had not time for small, brown puppies, even if he had seen Ruddy, which perhaps he did not. The baker, too, might have tossed him a roll, for there were many in the wooden bin back of the seat. But the baker did not give Ruddy a thought. And so the homeless dog walked slowly on, sniffing here and there trying to find, in the only way he knew, something to eat. And, as luck would have it, Ruddy turned into the yard of the house where Rick lived. There seemed to be no one up, and so, from having been a sort of a tramp dog in at least half of the days he had thus far lived, Ruddy trotted around to the back door. That is where tramps—whether men or dogs—always go; to the back door. Later on they may use the front way. Ruddy knew at back doors there were sometimes boxes, barrels or cans filled with what might be called food. It was not as nice as he could have wished, but often he had found a perfectly good bone in this way—a bone which was not too hard for his puppy teeth that were fast growing stronger. "I hope I find some meat this morning," thought Ruddy. "There isn't much on a bone, lots of times it's almost bare, and I'm terribly hungry!" He saw some cans at the back door. From one came the delicious smell of meat, and with a joyful yelp Ruddy began nosing about it. The cover was on the can, but Ruddy knew how to shove this off—that is if it were not on too tightly. But this one was tight. Push as he did with his paws and nose, Ruddy could not uncover the can to get at the meat, the smell of which came through a crack in the top. And then, being only a little dog—a poor, cold, hungry puppy, Ruddy raised his head and howled. It was just as if some small boy or girl had cried. Sadly and mournfully Ruddy howled, because he could not shove the cover off the garbage pail, and get at what was within. And then, with the first echo of the hungry dog's cry dying away, the kitchen door opened and there stood Rick. At first the boy could scarcely believe that what he saw was real—a small, reddish-brown dog at his doorsteps. But then, as Ruddy stopped howling, wagged his tail and crawled to Rick's feet, the boy's eyes sparkled in delight. He leaned down, put his arms around Ruddy's neck, hugging him close, as only a boy can hug a dog, and Rick shouted. "He's come! He's here! I got him!" "What's that? Who's there? What have you got?" asked Rick's mother. "I've got a dog!" cried Rick in ringing tones. "He came in the night. I prayed that I'd get him, and I did! He's here! I was afraid it might be a cat, like Mazie prayed for a doll carriage and got a cradle. But I got a dog all right. Oh, you're my dog! You're my dog!" and then Ruddy, looking up into the eyes of Rick, knew that he had found what he wanted all his short life—someone to whom he could really belong! Mrs. Dalton came to the door. She looked at Rick hugging the reddish-brown puppy, and a troubled look came over her face. "Where did you get him?" she asked. "He was right here—on the steps waiting for me," answered Rick. "I hoped he'd be here when I woke up, but I couldn't be sure. You see I didn't pray very long—only one night." "Richard Dalton! You didn't pray for a dog; did you?" asked his mother, rather shocked, though she did not know exactly why. "Course I prayed for a dog," Rick answered. "Isn't it all right to pray for what you want?" His mother did not answer that question. "You can't keep him," she said. "Why not?" and there was alarm in Rick's tone and glance as he stopped patting the brown head and looking into the brown eyes of Ruddy. "Why can't I keep my dog?" "Because he isn't yours," answered his mother. "But he came to me—in the night. Maybe he came up out of the sea, like Mazie said. Anyhow he was here waiting for me. Course he's my dog!" and the boy put his arms about Ruddy's neck. "No, Rick dear," answered his mother. "This may be a nice dog, and you may like him very much, but he must belong to someone else." "Then couldn't I keep him 'till someone comes for him?" asked the boy. "He likes me—look how he stays with me." "Yes, a puppy will stay with anyone," said Mrs. Dalton. "But I don't want you to have a dog, Rick. I'm afraid of them." "Not this one—not—not Ruddy!" exclaimed Rick, giving the dog that name as it seemed best to fit him. "Why he'd just love Mazie! He wouldn't bite her and he can't scratch like a cat. Please, mother, let me keep this dog! He's mine! He came to me in the night! He was here waiting for me when I came down to see if I'd got one!" Mrs. Dalton found it hard to refuse. She loved animals herself, and her only fear of a dog was on account of little Mazie. "Well, you may keep him until after breakfast, anyhow," she said. "I expect he's hungry. Give him some milk, and then get washed for your own meal." "Couldn't he have some meat, too?" asked Rick. "I'll see if I can find him a few scraps. Too much meat isn't good for little dogs. Milk is better. But this isn't such a puppy as I thought at first. I'll see what I can find for him." And what a meal that was to half-starved Ruddy! Never had scraps of meat, bits of bread and potato and milk tasted so good! He paused now and then, in his eager bolting of the food, to look up at Rick and his mother. Ruddy divided his glances of affection between them, for he did not know to whom he owed most. He ate quickly. A dog does not need to chew his food very much, as it is taken care of in his wonderful stomach. In that he is not like boys and girls, who, the more they chew their food, the better off they are. "Oh, what you got?" cried a voice behind Rick, as he was watching his dog eat. "What you got?" "A dog, Mazie," answered her brother. "It's my dog! He came in the night, and he was waiting down on the back steps for me. I prayed for him. Did you pray too, Mazie?" "No. I—I was going to," said the little girl, "but I was so sleepy I forgot whether you said a dog or a cat, so I just prayed for a new doll for me. Oh, he's a nice dog!" "I just guess he is!" cried Rick already proud in ownership of something real and alive and almost human. "He's my dog!" Mrs. Dalton said nothing, but she looked over the heads of the children toward her husband. "So Rick's found a dog after all; has he?" spoke Mr. Dalton, as he got ready to go to work. "Well! Well! He isn't such a bad dog, either." "No, he seems right nice," spoke Mrs. Dalton. "But he must belong to someone." "He belongs to me!" declared Rick. "I don't need Henry Blake's dog now; I got one of my own!" The kitchen door was open. The sun was shining warmer now on the back steps, and Ruddy wanted to lie down in that patch of yellow light, and bask in the glow after his meal. Rick followed his new pet outside. Sig Bailey, the coast guard, was just coming off duty, and going past the house on his way to home and breakfast. He looked in the yard and saw Rick patting Ruddy. "Hello there!" called Sig. "Where'd you get my dog, Rick?" "Your dog?" cried the boy, and his heart seemed to stop beating for a second. "Is—is this your dog?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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