FullReads

At this point the doctor laid down his pen, arose, and went to the book-case for his Homer, with purpose to copy the original lines into a footnote–for, to tell the truth, he had never quite mastered the methods of the Greek accents. He found the passage in Odyssey 14. Yes, it was all right–

autar Odysseus
Ezeto kerdosune, skeptrou de oi ekpese cheiros . . .

But–hallo! what was this next line?–

Eutha kev o para stathmo aeikelion pathen algos . . .

–‘There by his own steading,’ the poet went on, ‘would Odysseus have suffered foul hurt, had not the swineherd hurried out and scolded the dogs and pelted them off with stones.’ It would seem then, according to Homer, that this device of squatting upon the ground could not be trusted save as a diversion, a temporary check. Doctor Unonius bit his nether lip. Strange that he had overlooked this. . . .

He had a scholar’s conscience. He could not endure to garble a quotation or suppress a material point for the sake of illustrating an argument more vividly. . . . Besides, it might delude some unfortunate person into sitting down where self-preservation demanded a more alert posture. Somebody–dreadful thought!–might get himself severely bitten, mauled, mangled perhaps to death, merely by obeying a piece of pseudo-scientific advice. That he, Doctor Unonius, might never be reproached with the disaster, might never even hear of it, in no degree mitigated his responsibility.

While he stood by the bookcase, balancing his spectacles on his forefinger and Homer’s words in his mind, Jenifer, his one small maid-servant, entered with word that Roger Olver was at the door with a message from Penalune.

‘Show him in,’ said Doctor Unonius.

So Roger Olver, huntsman and handy-man to Sir John Penalune of Penalune, squire of Polpeor, hitched his horse’s bridle on the staple by the doctor’s front door–it would be hard to compute how many farmers, husbands, riding down at dead of night with news of wives in labour, had tethered their horses to that well-worn staple–and was conducted by Jenifer to the doctor’s study.

‘Ah! Good morning, Roger!’

‘Mornin’, y’r honour. Sir John bade me ride down an’ ask ‘ee–‘

‘To be sure–to be sure. As it happens, no man could have come at a happier moment. Accustomed, as you are, to dogs–‘

‘Hounds,’ corrected Roger.

‘It makes no difference.’ The doctor translated the passage, and explained his difficulty.

‘I reckon,’ said Roger, after scratching his head, ‘the gentleman acted right in settin’ down–though I’ve never had occasion to try it, dogs bein’ fond o’ me by natur’. I’ve heard, too, that a very good way, when a dog goes for you, is to squatty ‘pon your heels with your coat-tails breshin’ the ground an’ bust out laffin’ in his face. I tell that for what ’tis worth.’

‘Thank you,’ said the doctor. ‘I will make a note of it.’

‘It wants nerve, seemin’ to me.’ Roger Olver rubbed his chin.

‘That is understood.’

‘For my part, if it happened I had a stick, I’d slash out at the beggar’s forelegs–so–an’ keep slashin’ same as if I was mowin’ grass. Or, if I hadn’ a stick, I’d kick straight for his forelegs an’ chest; he’s easy to cripple there, an’ he knows it. Settin’ down may be all right for the time, only the difficulty is you’ve got to get up again sooner or later–onless help arrives.’

‘Eureka!’ exclaimed Doctor Unonius, rushing to his notes.

‘I beg y’r honour’s pardon?’

‘The modern instance says that the dogs would remain seated in a circle round the man; that so long as he remained seated they would do the same; but that, if he attempted to rise, they would renew the attack. That vindicates me, and explains Homer.’

‘Do it?’ said Roger Olver. ‘But, beggin’ your pardon, sir, if it’s about dogs you want to know, why not have a look in at the kennels– ay, an’ follow the hounds now an’ then? I’ve often wondered, makin’ so bold, how a gentleman like yourself, an’ knowin’ what’s good for health, can go wastin’ time on dead fishes, with a pack o’ hounds, so to speak, at your door.’